Final Chapters

 The Final Chapters

 April 28, 2011

I know I have not written in a while, but it has not been because I have nothing to say, but rather, it is because I have too much.   Sometimes it seems as if my feelings are too big for words.  I know that my work here is nearly finished; the story is nearly told.  Soon I will move on.  A new road will appear and I will follow it.  A traveler always does.

There are so many lessons I have learned, so many things I will miss (or not).  Where in America will I have the opportunity to literally embrace my neighbors on a public bus, maybe even popping my shoulders to try to fit in? Where will I buy stiff porridge if I have a late night craving for a large lump?   I dream about America: going to a mall, eating pizza, driving a car, taking a hot shower, having electricity and water every day.  Yet, as I sit on my porch, I realize that in some way, I will miss this life, but especially, I will miss those I have come to love. 

Yudathade was here for the Easter weekend.  He was “hodiing” at the door early Friday morning with a big smile on his face.  He must have left school at dawn, excited at the thought of going home.  I may not think my house here is much compared to what I lived in in America, but for him it is a mansion.  For the first time in his life he is living in a house with indoor plumbing, electricity, and cement floors.  He does not have to worry about people breaking in at night to harm him or his sister.  He has someone to come home to, someone who cares.  After exchanging greetings, he proudly showed me his mid-term exams.  His grades have improved significantly in most subjects, especially physics.  Now it is his favorite class.  I hugged him and told him how proud I am of him.  In the short time that I have known Yuda, I have always sensed that this is what he was longing for.  Love was what was missing from his life.  Is this why God sent me?  To remind him of a mother’s love.

Fidesta is now in Morogoro, studying at Bigwa Sisters, an all-girls Catholic high school.  I like the place.  I like the head sister.  I think Fidesta will be safe there, although like everything in Tanzania, there were challenges to overcome in getting her there.  She applied to study PCB (physics, chemistry, and biology combination) and despite her mediocre form 4 results, Sister gave her permission to come.  Fidesta’s generous sponsors in the US paid her school fees, and then she and I went to Moshi to shop for all the other things she would need.  I bought her books for each subject, a rarity for most Tanzanian students.  On the way home Fidesta told me that she felt like President Kikwete’s child, more than rich, because she had everything she needed.  She had never known a student who had as many books as she had.  She promised she would study very hard.

Finally the big day arrived.  I had been at a Peace Corps meeting earlier that week, so I met Aggie and Fidesta in Moshi.  We stayed at a relative’s house for the night, and then escorted Fidesta to the bus in the morning.  As we stood together on the sidewalk waiting for the bus to arrive, I put my arm around Fidesta and told her that I loved her very much.  I was surprised when she turned and walked away. Then I saw her standing alone behind a tree sobbing.  Fidesta had already lost one mother; she did not want to lose another.   Again, I was a bit startled to realize how much I really meant to her.  Love is a powerful thing.  I reassured her that I would always love her no matter where I happened to be and that “if God wishes” (a common Tanzanian expression) I would return to see her one day.  “Really Madam?  Oh please come for my graduation.”  I promised I would try.

The bus arrived and the conductor struggled to lift her trunk into the boot.  He asked if she was taking rocks.  She laughed and said, “No, just books.”  Then she boarded and the bus pulled away.  Fidesta was gone.  Now I struggled to control my own tears.

I was expecting Fidesta to call when she arrived at school; however, I was not prepared for what she had to say.  There were not enough students to offer both PCB and CBG (chemistry, biology, and geography) so Sister had chosen CBG.  Fidesta wanted me to make the decision as to what she should do.  I told her I was here to give her opportunity not to direct her life.  She must decide.  She told me that she wanted to study PCB and maybe she could shift to Longido, the government school to which she had been selected.  Silently I was saying, “Oh please, not a government school” while at the same time I was saying out loud, “Ok Fidesta, if that is what you wish.”  I spoke with Sister and made arrangements for Fidesta to return home so that she could enroll at Longido as soon as possible.  I was disappointed but willing to accept the switch if that is what Fidesta truly wanted.  Therefore I was surprised when Fidesta called me again later that night.  Apparently Sister had counseled her and convinced her that it would be better for her to remain at Bigwa and study CBG where she knew she would have teachers and resources, rather than risk studying PCB at a government school where there would most likely not be enough teachers and very few resources.  Physics is difficult enough, without having to learn it on your own.  All these things are very true.  Thank you God for Sister!  (I talked to Fidesta on Easter Sunday and she is very happy that she remained at Bigwa).

Agness continues to study diligently for her qualifying exam in the fall.  If she passes, she will be allowed to study for her form 4 exams.  Receiving an O-level certificate is what she wants most right now.  Agness has made many mistakes in life, and she worries that I will not love her if I know the truth.  However, she does not know that I already know much about her past, and it does not matter.  I have seen her heart and it is good.  I have always felt like I was supposed to do something for Aggie, but I never was sure what it was or why it should be done. Once again, I think that the answer is simply love and opportunity. She made me a Valentine’s Day card this year, and in it she wrote, “I never really knew love until you showed me.  Thank you Madam.  I love you very much.”   Maybe this opportunity has been God’s invitation to Aggie, “Come and live a better life.”  May God continue to help her see the way.

My own life has not been uneventful.  There was another moment recently where I almost called it quits.  I have been working very hard lately, and maybe like Fidesta says, I have not been eating enough ugali (stiff porridge).  I have not been feeling so strong, so I called the Peace Corps doctor.  He told me to come to the office for some tests.  I agreed to come after Easter.  So the Wednesday before Easter, I made a quick trip to Moshi to get money to buy a bus ticket to travel to Dar. When I boarded the bus to return home to Mkuu, there was a seat behind the driver that seemed to be free.  I asked a lady nearby if it was available and she said “yes, it is free.” So I sat down to wait for the bus to depart.  However, soon another woman came on the bus yelling that I had taken her seat.  She seemed a bit crazy, so I said “hamna shida,” and I moved to the other side of the aisle.  She put her stuff down and got off the bus.  A short time later, she boarded the bus again, yelling and screaming and hitting a young man with her purse.  She shouted “Mwizi! Mwizi!”  (Thief! Thief!).  All of a sudden, a crowd of men jumped on the bus and began beating the young man.  The bus was rocking back and forth.  Luckily, I was in the front and somewhat sheltered from the crowd.  But I watched as they tore off his shirt and dragged him off the bus by his leg.  They dumped him on the ground right below my window, and I watched in horror and disbelief as they kicked him and stamped on him.  He was about the same age as my A-level students, but his clothes said that he was very poor.  I did not know if he had tried to steal from this woman, but I knew this was not right.  These people were going to kill this boy.  I did not know what to do, my hands were shaking and tears fell spontaneously from my eyes.  I felt powerless to control the frenzy but I said “Acha! Huruma! Huruma!” (Stop! Mercy! Mercy!), then I prayed.  Soon some big men came running up and placed themselves between the boy and the crowd.  When they had calmed the crowd enough, they picked up the victim and carried him away.  The young woman next to me said softly, “Mzungu, mzungu, don’t cry.”  How ironic that her concern was for me.  Finally the bus departed and I was left to my thoughts.  On the way home I was thinking how uncivilized this country is, but I knew that that was not really true.  These were not the actions only of Tanzanians.  These were the actions of mankind.  Mob justice, out of control fervor for a cause, it has occurred over and over throughout the history of man.  What I had witnessed must have been very much like what occurred during the crucifixion of Christ.  I had always wondered how good people could behave so cruelly and without regard for human life.  Now I know.  I have seen.

I do have some happy news to report.  I have been doing a series of teacher workshops at my school and the theme is “Change Begins with You.”  We have talked about how teachers are leaders and about the power they have to really make a difference in a student’s life.  Already I have seen some positive results.  I have seen more teachers actually entering their classes, and when they do, they seem to be teaching with more energy.  Recently, a student came to her teacher to tell her about some difficulties she was having at home.  Her family was very poor and she had no money to buy exercise books and pens.  She was thinking of leaving school.  Instead of telling her to get out or hitting her with a stick, the teacher counseled her and told her to fight for her own life, no matter what was happening at home.  Then she took her to the school shop and bought her the things that she needed.  The second master also told me that one young teacher, maybe not always so hard-working and respectable in the past, had volunteered to help teach A-level General Studies for no extra pay. Extra work for no pay; that is indeed a miracle!

 

Opportunity, love, respect, encouragement: that has been my mission here.  I know it will not change the world, but maybe it will change life for a few.

Uninvited House Guests

Uninvited Guests

March 19, 2011

Part of the Peace Corps philosophy is that we live like the people in our communities, and I have done my best to blend in.  Recently I discovered that I share an experience that almost every Tanzanian has experienced at least once in their lives: uninvited houseguests, minyoo (worms).  I will spare you all the graphic details, but I was not happy.  I looked in my Peace Corps health book.  Nothing, although it did say that under no circumstances was a volunteer to seek medical care at a facility in their community without permission from the Peace Corps medical officer.  To do so would be grounds for separation.  Ok, sounds serious, so I called my PCMO and he told me to go to the hospital in my village.  My village! I have seen that hospital.  That is where the slow (only kind we have) internet is located.  He wants me to go there?  I went and what a treat it was, because it gave me a rare peak into the world of medical care in a small village in a developing country.

First thing I had to do was open a file.  The man taking down my information on a small scrap of card board asked me the expected questions.  Then he wanted to know the name of my tribe.  I told him that I do not have a tribe.  So he told me to write the name of my tribe in America.  Again, I told him that we do not have tribes in America.  He let it go, but when he returned with my pink hospital pass, I glanced at it and there next to tribe it said “Chaga.”  I always tell people here that I am Mchaga Marekani.  It is true, we are a mixed tribe and do not all speak the same tribal language.  That is why my kichaga (language) is different than theirs.  I also have been given many Chaga names, mostly by old men coming out of the bar late in the afternoon or by crazy people walking along the road or by my girls.  My name is Teresia Mamasawe Makaishe Angel Malaika.  Anyway, now it is official.  It says right there on my card: Chaga.

Back to my story.  The hospital was crowded but I got special attention.  One of the doctors personally took charge of my case (I think he is a doctor).  He moved me from the file desk to the payment desk (the file cost about $1.50) then to an office for consultation and exam.  He went out a few times to borrow the doctor equipment: stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, thermometer.  You see the point.  He told me that I would need to be tested so he escorted me to the lab.  The woman handed me a small glass bottle with an opening of about 1 cm and a plastic vial with a small spoon attached to the lid.  Many of you know me, give me a paper and pencil test, no problem, but this was just too much for me.  I tried to ask the doctor and the lab assistant how it would be possible to collect a sample in that small jar.  The doctor thought that I did not know what it was for, so he explained the whole procedure.  Then he said, “Now where do you think you should go to collect the samples?” I was thinking that maybe this was part of the test, but then I remembered that Cheryl had used the hospital restroom before and had described it to me.  No I did not want to go there.  He asked again, and I was going to suggest outside behind a tree, when I remembered that the Lutheran hostel has a decent restroom.  I told him I would go there and then return.  Luckily they had soap in the bathroom that day because I used a lot of it.  Went back to the hospital, turned in my samples to the lab station, and sat down to wait.  Then the power went out.  The lab tech opened her window and told me that the power was out.  I said “I know,” and she said, “Ok, wait.”  After an hour or so, the doctor came and told me that the power was out, what should he do?  I thought that maybe calling Tanesco and telling them to turn it back on might be a good idea, but kept that to myself.  I said that I would return the next morning.  He said “good, that is what we should do,” and he gave me another jar and vial.  Wait one minute, I worked hard for that first test.  Now I have to take a retest?  “Yes, the first one would be destroyed.”  Ok, anything to get rid of those uninvited guests.  All they do is grumble and complain and eat my food!  I went home and gave the test another try the next morning.  However, I know that my first results were better.  I returned to the hospital and the power was on.  The lab tech ran the tests.  Nothing.  The doctor took me back to the office and then ran out and returned with some books.  He said that often tests can be negative but he takes worm pills every three months just to be safe.  Based on my descriptions, he felt sure he knew what it was, so he opened the books to show me different medicines available.  Then he said, “Which one would you like?”  Again, I was confused, feeling like I was in a different world or something.  He insisted that I look at all the choices.  I was kind of partial to the one whose side effects said nausea and diarrhea, but I like to blend in, so I chose the one that said “most commonly recommended.”  We went to the dispensary and my pill was dispensed.  It cost less than 10 cents.

I chewed it early in the morning on an empty stomach and waited all day.  The free loaders were sure taking their time packing their bags.  Probably stealing the silver ware and whatever else they could find.  Finally, the second day, peace and quiet!

PS If any of you were considering this as a weight loss plan, I do not recommend it. It stinks!

People

People

March 18, 2011

            I have been a people watcher for most of my life and have always assumed that I am a pretty good judge of character.  Recently, I have come to realize that my first impressions of many people here may only have been characters that I created in my head.  I viewed Tanzanian people through American eyes.  It was all I knew.  I matched behaviors that I saw to personalities I knew back home.  I judged them according to my standards.  It was my way of making sense of a new and strange environment.  However, my eyes have changed.  They are no longer solely American.  Is it possible that a part of me has become Tanzanian?  Now I often find myself reassessing my opinions of the people I have met.  Culture really makes a difference.  It reminds me of a kaleidoscope.  In one frame you see a certain image, but give it a twist, overlay it with a different culture and the picture changes.  People that I wrote off as lacking in morals or common sense have become good people, but conversely, people that I ascribed with good intentions and kind hearts now seem to have been only serving themselves.  At first this was very troubling for me.  How could I have been so wrong about a person?  How could I have made such a mistake?

            I imagined throwing the kaleidoscope down and the cover coming off, spilling hundreds of tiny, individual crystals out on the floor.  Each one was different, but then again, they all were alike.  Arrange them one way and you see an American, another way, and they have become Tanzanian.  I am beginning to understand.  Strip away the culture and you see the heart.  You see the person.  I have begun to trust my eyes less and rely more on what I feel.  Unfortunately, what I feel most is pain.  For some, like Neema, it is very strong.  It is true, she goes to school now.  She is learning to read and write, but when she leaves the school, her coach becomes a pumpkin again.  She returns to the world she has always known.  She is my house girl without a name.  She lives in fear of making a mistake but in everything she does, she will err.  She does not speak because she will always say the wrong thing.  She does not laugh because the joy has been beaten out of her long ago.  This is the life she knows.  Neema means “grace of God.”  My friends Kris and Keli sent her an angel ornament for Christmas, a white angel carrying a lamb.  I gave it to her when I visited in February.  She smiled and said, “For me?”  Yes, Neema, you are the lamb.  God has sent you a white angel to remind you that you are a very good girl and that you are truly loved.  Let your soul rest in God’s arms for a while.  I said a prayer that she would be allowed to keep the angel.  I prayed that she would always keep the memory. Oh, sad little Neema.

            Who is her tormentor?  Who would beat this slight child with a stick?  My friend, Victoria, that is who.  You are probably thinking, “How horrible,” but if you were Tanzanian, it is very likely that you would do the same. I have stopped separating people here into categories of good and bad based on whether they hit children with sticks.  Now I judge them on how much or how hard they like to hit.  Remove the culture and observe what is there: pain, discouragement, hopelessness, frustration, fear.  We would all like to say that we would do better than this, but faced with the same circumstance, who knows how we would respond.

            There are others whose lives have been so difficult that you would not blame them if they have become cynical and cold-hearted.  You want to congratulate them for having managed to survive.  But when you get to know them you are amazed at the beauty and strength of their spirit.  They have not just survived, they have thrived.  God has protected them for some purpose, like Fidesta.

            “Tell me a story Fidesta, a happy story about your childhood.”

            “A happy story Madam?  I do not remember any.”

            “You have no happy memories? Then tell me about your life.”  

And she told her tale of four young children, all in primary school, living alone as a family.  Fidesta was in 3^rd grade and Yuda had just begun school.  As the years went by, the family became smaller and smaller.  The oldest brother left to study at an A-level school in Dar.  The older sister decided to marry in order to escape.  Fidesta and Yuda were alone.  Life was very difficult.  They had to rush from school in the afternoon, prepare food, and do their chores to make sure they were inside and the house closed up before dark.  That was when the nighttime visitors began to arrive, men banging on the walls of the house, calling Fidesta to come out.  She and Yuda had a battery powered radio and they turned it up as loud as it would go to block out the voices.  Still they were afraid and could not sleep.  Fidesta could not study.  She developed peptic ulcers and could no longer eat beans.  Someone at school told her to shift to Mkuu; they had a hostel for girls. She received permission; however, now Yuda, was left alone.  Safe from the men but not from the stress, Fidesta worried constantly about her young brother.  Sometimes she would make up stories to leave campus and would sneak home to see how he was faring.  She really did not have much hope for her future.  Survival was her life.

            “Madam, I have remembered a happy story!  Two stories in fact!”

            “Tell me Fidesta.”

The first happy story took place after Fidesta had been sick and had stayed overnight in the hospital.  She needed 15000 shilings to pay her bill.  She had no money so she went to her grandfather and asked him to help.  He told her he had no money to give to her, and when she pleaded with him, he told her to go ask her dead parents.  Maybe they would reach up from their graves and give her some.  She did not know what to do, so she went to her parents’ gravesite and cried.  Feeling defeated, she returned to school.  A few days later, Sister called for her and told her she had visitors.  She could not imagine who it could be.  She went to greet them and met a couple who had been friends of her parents.  They wanted to give her some money, 50000 shilings.  Fidesta was astonished. She thanked them and they went away.  She made up a story and went home.  She paid her bill and then gave Yuda his half of the money.  He was afraid.  He demanded to know where she had gotten such a sum.  She told him, “From God.”

The second happy story occurred fairly recently.  Fidesta needed a place to stay for the school break because the hostel was closing.  She had no idea where to go.  She was sitting on a wall near the church when she saw a “Mzungu” come out.  Her friend told her to go ask the white teacher.  Maybe she would help.  Fidesta was afraid.  She said, no, she could not, but God gave her courage and put words in her mouth.  She went and asked the woman if she could carry her bag and escort her to her home.  You know the ending of that story.  God brought them together.  Now Fidesta has a mother, she and her brother go to good schools, she has hope and a future.  God has blessed her indeed.  That is a happy story.  But the thing that touches my heart the most is that Fidesta has promised God that when she gets a job, she will find two young orphans, a little boy and a girl, and she will give them a new life like God has given her.  Every day, I am amazed at her loving heart and her profound faith.  Fidesta, what a beautiful spirit!

Processing

Processing

February 19, 2011

The last few weeks have not just been a blur of activity, but they also have provided much time for introspection and reflection about my life.  While sitting at home (in New York) close to the fire watching the falling snow or lying awake in my bed staring at the numerous glow-in-the-dark stars that my niece and my mother so thoughtfully placed there for me, I felt a sudden jolt of awareness. Soon I will be leaving Tanzania and coming home for good.  It will be necessary to find a real job, one that actually pays a salary, so that I can continue what I like doing best: giving money away.  The fact that I am now 50 years old and the job market is still pretty tight may be a cause for concern, but what I find most daunting is finding a job that is as rewarding as this.  After working directly for God, how can any other job possibly compare?  (Aggie and Fidesta often tease me.  Sometimes when we are walking home from the market, I like to pass through the church while it is empty and quiet.  The girls say that I am going into the office to speak with my boss). 

While my fellow volunteers are contemplating whether to extend their service, I have returned to Tanzania with a renewed sense of urgency to finish my work.  During the past few months, many signs have indicated it and my father’s passing confirmed it: I cannot stay.  Now I think I understand why.  God invited me to Tanzania to sow seeds but not to remain and watch them grow.  I came to do His work, for His glory, not mine.   All those that I love here, especially Fidesta, Yuda, and Aggie, have seen miracles occur before their eyes.  Their faith is stronger.  They have hope.  However, the longer I stay, the more ordinary things become.  Instead of saying things like “God has heard me crying and He has lifted me out of a miry snake pit,” they may begin to say “Look what mzungu has done for us.”  I never want them to forget the miracle that brought us together and I never want to begin thinking that I was the one who changed their lives.  I love these children like my own and it will break my heart to leave them, but I know that I must go.

Most troubling, however, is where do I go and where do I belong?  I feel like I have crossed a line and that there is no going back.  I would not say that I have changed, but rather that I have finally accepted who I am.  Someone that I loved once told me that I was not like other women.  I was crushed at the time and tried hard to prove otherwise, but I will admit now that my friend was right.  Now Fidesta has seen it too.  While sitting together on a crowded bench in Moshi, a woman approached us and showed us a letter from the government giving her permission to beg for money to help her sick child.  As I looked at the baby strapped to her back, the child smiled, and my heart melted.  I gave the woman some money (what would you have done?).  It was a small donation in our world, but the woman stared at me and in a quiet voice said, “asante” and then disappeared into the crowd.  Fidesta turned to me and said, “Madam, I do not know how to say the words, but only God is the one who can pay you.  No peoples can ever pay you because you are not like other peoples.  Many peoples believe in God but you are the one who knows Him.” Tears came to my eyes, because I have felt different all my life, despite trying so hard to blend in.  Now I have found a sense of peace doing what I believe I was meant to do.  Maybe it began when my father took me to that little white church and allowed me to go to Sunday school.  Maybe it was because my grandmother told me that if I was good, my shoulder blades would one day sprout wings.  (She also told me that if I was bad, my head would grow horns). They never did, but I always imagined what it would be like to have feathery white wings and fly above the clouds, harking and heralding, blowing a trumpet, and singing in a loud voice.  Now I think that God’s angels are just ordinary people who have chosen to be His servants here on Earth.  If that is true, then that is what I want to be.  However, there is just one problem, how do I earn money being a servant of God? 

Here in Mkuu, I also have too much time for thinking.  My students have finished exams and gone home for a month.  For some reason that I do not understand, the school calendar was changed while I was in the US and school closed for form 5s two and a half weeks early.  I was able to give my students my exam (they had already taken one prepared by another teacher when I returned) and to say good-bye.  Most of my form 6s are now gone from my life.  I will have my form 5s (now form 6s) for one more term and I plan to cover the rest of the syllabus in that time.

Fidesta’s form 4 test results have returned.  She scored division 3 so she may have a possibility of being invited to a government school.  The headmasters are at the selection conference now in Arusha. (Results for Mkuu were typical of most government schools in Tanzania: 5 division 1s and 10 division 2s (they will be invited to A-level), 29 division 3s (possibly invited to A-level), 90 division 4s (no A-level but a few may be able to become primary school teachers), and 50 failures (education finished). )  Now we are searching for a private school for Fidesta in case she does not get accepted to a government school.  Needless to say, it is very discouraging.  The good schools with teachers who care for every class, books, resources, and security will not take her with her grades.  The private schools that will take her have abysmal academic performance.  Fidesta is a bright girl who has had a very difficult life.  She says it is a miracle that she even made it through form 4.  I pray that she will find a place.  She deserves a chance.

        February 26, 2011

I have just returned from Morogoro and this is the first opportunity I have had to use the internet in quite a while.  Victoria’s house will be inhabitable soon, maybe even with cement floors.  That is good, because she and the girls are supposed to vacate the place where they are staying on Monday.

I have been praying that God would show us an A-level school for Fidesta, and in Morogoro, we found it.  It is an all-girl Catholic boarding school called Bigwa Sisters Secondary School.  They have a very good performance record for arts combinations and this year will begin offering science combinations.  Fidesta wants to study PCB (physics, chemistry, and biology), but will also apply for HGK (history, geography, and Kiswahili) in case they do not get enough students to begin the science program.  The priest showed us their three new modern laboratories, and I was impressed.  Sort of wished I was working there.  However, like most things in Tanzania, I cannot just accept things at face value.  Problems will surface, but for now, I am happy that she will be somewhat protected from the countless number of men (especially teachers) that prey on girl students.  I am sure that the sisters will be strict and will not spare the stick, but as long as she follows the rules and is good to them, they should be good to her.  I am not sure how she will do in PCB, but I will provide the books and anything else that she needs before I return to America.

My Dad

My Dad

I have lived so far from home for so many years that I sometimes wondered if I still really knew my dad.  I always knew that he was friendly and that he truly loved people, but despite this knowledge, I was amazed at the numbers who came out on a very cold winter night to offer condolences and to say good-bye to a dear friend.  There were hundreds: state troopers, highway superintendents, boat club members, coffee club buddies, friends, neighbors, family, and so many of them said the same thing; my dad was a special guy.  He was kind, considerate, generous, always willing to help a friend, patient, calm, and easy going.  He was never a worrier or a complainer.  He knew things would turn out all right.  The pastor described him as having a quiet inner strength.  My mom said that he was a lot like me. That gave me the comfort and peace that I was looking for, to know that a part of him lives on in me.

My dad also loved his family and he would have been pleased to see how this event brought us together again.  He would have been proud to see my older brother hold my mother’s hand throughout the service, offering her comfort and support.  He would have bragged to his friends about how dependable my younger brother has been and about all he has done to keep this family together.  Tears would have filled his eyes as he watched my sister slip in beside me as I went up alone to pay my last respects.   No matter how far apart we may have drifted over the years, we are still family, and family takes care of one another when times are tough.  My dad really believed that.

With state policemen blocking every intersection, the funeral procession traveled unimpeded, carrying my father one last time through the streets of his beloved town.  Time seemed to stand still on this cold winter’s day, and I reflected again on my father’s life.  His stroke had deprived him of his ability to speak clearly and fluently.  Now I imagined him in heaven talking up a storm, catching up with long lost friends.  He had a good life, a full life, made rich by the love he shared with others.  He is at peace now; I am sure of that.  Winter days will remain with us awhile longer as we continue our mourning, but one day we will wake up and realize that spring has come again. 

I extend my deepest thanks to all of you for your prayers, your condolences, and your support during this difficult time for me and all my family.

God bless friends and family

Kwa Heri Baba Yangu!

 Kwa Heri Baba, Uwe na Mungu Sasa

(Good-bye Daddy, Now You Are With God)

Charles Michael Fuda, Sr.

March 23, 1937 – January 20, 2011

What does God require of those who truly want to serve Him?  He wants us to serve Him with our whole heart, our whole soul, our entire being.  He wants us to give Him no less than our life.  To give up a house, a car, a job is not easy, but it is nothing compared to the pain of letting go of the ones we love.

Mark 8: 34 If anyone wishes to come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross, and follow me.  For whoever wishes to save his life shall lose it; but whoever loses his life for my sake and the gospel’s shall save it.

I knew it was coming.  I could sense it.  I made inquiries about flying home in March during my break from school.  I wanted to see my father again.  I wanted to help him find his peace.  Then the call came and I knew that he was gone.  Now I would definitely go home.

As I began to prepare for my journey, the enormity of my impact here overwhelmed me.  It has not just been an adventure, a mid-life fling or “do good to feel good” sort of game. These are real people and through me, God has changed their lives.  He has given them hope.  He has given them courage and strength to face whatever the future brings.  Most importantly, He has let them know love, and truthfully, I love them.  It was difficult to say good-bye.  There were lots of tears and most of them were not mine. I am so sorry that I will not see them graduate.  I am so sorry that I will not be there each morning to encourage them as they take their exams.  Form six may be gone before I return and I will never see them again. God brought me here to Mkuu for a reason, but now He has heard another person crying and He wants me to comfort her.  I am going home to see my mom.

John 15:16 You did not choose Me, but I chose you and appointed you that you should go and bear fruit, and that your fruit should remain.

When I was a child, I thought that my dad could do everything.  If anything was broken, he could fix it.  If we needed a room added onto our small house, he could build it.  He taught me to ride a two wheeler when I was only three.  I remember him running behind me as I pedaled furiously down the middle of the road.  He helped us catch butterflies and fireflies and spittlebugs as we played behind our house.  Sometimes we even stopped to collect hickory nuts that had fallen from the enormous tree near the old pig pen in the field.  He took us sledding, skating, fishing, (ok I preferred reading to touching slimy worms), and for Sunday afternoon drives.  We climbed fire towers and swam in creeks. We had impromptu picnics as well as organized family vacations.  He stayed up to play monopoly with us on New Year’s Eve.  We watched fireworks on the fourth of July.  He was a good father, so kind, so gentle, and so patient.  He may not have expressed it in many words, but he really loved his family.  I used to secretly like it when he worked the night shift, because he would often stop at the bakery on his way home.  I can still remember the taste of those hot buttered hard rolls and sweet powdered donuts dripping with jam. But what was his most important gift to me?  Self-sacrifice.  He had to be tired after working all night (he was a New York State Trooper) chasing bad guys, dealing with so many people problems, or maybe even just sitting in a car in the dark doing nothing at all.  However, on Sunday mornings I would wait for him to come home and then I would ask him the big question, “Daddy can you take us (me and my older brother who probably thanked me with a pinch) to Sunday school?”  He would almost always say “yes” and then we would stay for church as well. We belted out hymns together.  Thank you Dad for helping to build the foundations of my faith.

Philipians 2:1 Your life in Christ makes you strong and his love comforts you.

Isaiah 41:9-10 Do not fear, for I am with you.  Do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you, surely I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.

My dad was not an emotional guy; there were only a few times that I saw him cry.  However, one was on my wedding day.  I was leaving the nest and moving south.  I never really returned home again.  Another was on the day I left for Africa.  Tears streamed down his face as he hugged me tight.  He told me he loved me and he said to take care of myself.  I remember thinking that my big dad had somehow become so small.  Maybe that was just a premonition of what was to come.  The following September I barely recognized him when I visited him in the nursing home.  I just thank God that I was able to be there the morning that he returned home.  The last image I have of him is him sitting on the couch in the living room with light shining once more in his eyes.  He was happy to be home.

How do you prepare to say good-bye to a parent?  Even though I know that it is just a passing, a transition from bodily form to spirit, it hurts to say good-bye.  He is in another place now, a place where the living cannot go.  He has found his peace, but I will miss him.  Kwa heri Baba!  I will always love you.

Isaiah 41:28-31 Do you not know?  Have you not heard?  The Everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth does not become weary or tired.  His understanding is inscrutable.  He gives strength to the weary, and to him who lacks might, He increases power.  Though youths grow weary and tired, and vigorous young men stumble badly, yet those who wait for the Lord will gain new strength.  They will mount up with wings like eagles.  They will run and not get tired.  They will walk and not become weary.

A New Year

A New Year

January 14, 2011

Christmas has past and a new year has begun.  Yuda has returned to school, Beatrice has returned to the hostel, and Aggie and Fidesta are home.  It was a good holiday, one that I am sure Yuda will remember for many years.  I remember the day I hiked up the mountain (into the bush) to greet Yuda at his homeplace.  I remember how his lip trembled and his eyes overflowed with tears as I questioned him about his life.  Now when I look at him, I see hope in his eyes and joy in his sweet smile.  He is loved.

Yuda is fifteen, or at least he thinks he is.  He looks much younger to me, but inevitably, he will soon begin to mature.  I am not very comfortable talking about adolescent issues in English; how would I manage to discuss these things in Swahili?  However, our time together is limited and I am the closest thing he has to a parent.  I knew we needed to talk.  I gave him a set of small booklets written in Swahili about many of these topics and told him to read them.  Then one night as we were studying, I reminded him that I would be returning to America and I would not be around to encourage him to work hard or to redirect him away from trouble when it comes.  He would have to be strong and disciplined in order to do this on his own.  We talked about avoiding drugs, alcohol, and cigarettes.  Right now he says these are all “mbaya” (bad) but we talked about how there would be times when he would be pressured by his peers to experiment with these things.  That is why it is so important to choose good friends.  We also talked about girls.  In this culture, maybe in this tribe, many women are not respected.  In fact, many are abused and exploited.  Domestic violence is quite common.  I warned Yuda that he was never, ever, to beat his wife or any woman, nor was he ever to beat his children.  It was not “his right”.  Violence begets violence.  We had a good discussion and he assured me that he would not abuse anyone.  Finally, I asked him about his plans for the future.  What did he want to be when he grew up?  He said, “I want to be a priest.” I was surprised for a moment, and I said, “Why Yuda?”  He said, “Because God saved me.”  (Of course!)

One of my students, Beatrice, also stayed with me for the holidays.  Her parents are very poor and did not have the money for her to come home.  I offered to buy her a ticket, but she preferred to stay with me.  She told me her family had many problems.  It was nice having her.  She cooked, cleaned, and kept Yuda company.  She studied when she was not working.  As a treat, I took them both to Moshi to eat at a restaurant and to see a movie (Wall-E).  It was a wonderful day.  However, that evening, the night before returning to the hostel, Beatrice told me her story.  She talked for almost two hours and she told me the most heartbreaking tale about physical and emotional abuse inflicted by family members!  Not her real parents but the extended family members with whom she lived.  Beatrice is now 16 years old and is finishing form 6.  Most form 6 leavers are between 18 and 20.  She is young but she is one of my top two students.  As she told her story, I could only imagine how painful her life must have been.  What would cause a 13 or 14 year old child to want to end her life by drinking rat poison?  However, once again, God intervened.  A student flung open the door to the classroom as she was preparing to drink and she dropped the cup.  She did not have money to buy more and that night she realized that this was not God’s plan for her.  No matter what her family said about her and no matter how much they hurt her, God knew her heart.  He had made her wise beyond her years.  She knew what was right and wrong.  She would trust Him to help her.  She vowed to study hard so that she could overcome her life of poverty and help her parents too.  It breaks her heart to hear them cry because they cannot give her what she needs.  (Please pray that Beatrice succeeds).

On a lighter note, I have spent the last week in Dar for Peace Corps training and medical check-ups.  When the nurse asked me my age, I told her I would be fifty in a couple weeks.  She said, “That cannot be true.  You are joking!  (Yes, I always lie about my age and make myself older) Really?  You are 50? I am 57 and I did not look like that when I was 50. I think you are 40.  Where are you living because I want to live there too?”  Apparently the environment in Mkuu agrees with me and I am becoming younger.  Even my country director commented on it when she saw me.  I know I have better definition in my arm muscles, but that is either from writing on the blackboard or from riding on the bus.  Last time I rode the bus in Mkuu, I came home smelling like someone else’s body odor.  Yes, we are packed pretty tightly. We ride like bananas.

Things are shaping up for a pretty busy year at school.  At our most recent staff meeting, the head master announced some changes in staffing.  The teacher in charge of the lab (the one who is not so nice) is no longer chemistry department chair.  The young serious teacher who I recommended now has that position.  The academic master who asked a temporary teacher to fill in my students’ grades on my behalf is no longer academic master, but he seems very happy about it.  Now he is in charge of field trips, clubs, and debate.  A physics teacher has been shifted from a nearby school to our school.  He will teach A-level physics and form 5 chemistry.  I will remain with my form 5s as they become form 6s and help the new teacher with form 5.  This will give me more free time for my other positions.  I plan to conduct a series of teacher workshops to help teachers improve their practice.  I have moved into my new office and will soon assume my role as school counselor. ( English only please!)  I have also been named as head of the new computer department.  We are getting 10 computers through a grant with V-Africa and we hope to open up an internet café at our school.  I am supposed to work with another teacher to organize that and to conduct workshops on computer skills (for teachers and students and possibly community members).  We will see.  Often we have big ideas but they are never implemented for a variety of reasons.

New years are always exciting for me because of the possibilities they bring.  I pray that this one is a good one.