August 1, 2008
Dear Friends,
Gloria (my Ugandan sister) and I went with our friend Douglas to a slum in Kampala, where the organization he works for has a food distribution ministry and also builds house church communities among those who are poor in this, the capital city of Uganda. I was pretty tired and we were running late to go see a movie. On the way out Douglas asked if we could stop and visit one last friend.
He walked us to a one-room mud brick hut, set a bit apart from the other homes. I sat with Gloria on the small wood slats that serve for a bed. Along one wall of the house were huge bags of charcoal, the other had a small shelf with some kind of raw meat in a bowl. Inside we found a tired looking man and three women, as well as six children sitting around, weaving straws into small mats. It was hot; there wasn't any air as this hut didn't have windows. I started sweating right away and was just thinking; “Oh man, I hope this is a short visit.”
At first the conversation was light and we did our usual jokes. When kids or people call out “Muzungu!” after me I tell them “Muzungu?! Ndi mudugavu!” which always gets a good laugh and means “White? Can't you see I'm black?!” Gloria told this family that I am a Muyankore; her tribe, and from her family's village called Bushenyi. The women laughed and then said no, that I was from Toro- their village and home. After a few minutes of joking and talking, the eldest woman, about my height with kind eyes, began to share their story. I waited for the conversation to finish and then let Gloria translate for me.
This woman told us that she had borrowed some money- 200,000 Ugandan shillings; (about $125) to start a business planting and selling corn. She was robbed though after she'd only paid back 30,000 shillings of the money. The person she borrowed the money from threatened to have her arrested if she didn't pay back the rest of the money. The family had to flee their home in Toro and come to Kampala because she believed that she could find work here. In Kampala this woman found a job sweeping streets and worked doing that for ten months. After those months of hard, backbreaking labor, they refused to pay her. Her husband began carrying heavy burdens to make some money, but he now has been injured and can't afford to purchase the medicine the doctors prescribe, nor can he carry the burdens anymore. Their daughter had a few children, and she came to visit and left these children for her parents, so now they have six children that rely on them for their needs.
Gloria asked “How much is your rent here?” She told us that someone had let them stay in this house to sell charcoal outside for free, but the land had recently been purchased and they had to leave by July 3. We looked at each other; at 4 pm on July 3, and realized that this family had to leave their home by today, with no money, a huge debt and fear of arrest, and nowhere else to go.
I have to confess, my dear friends, that things don't seem to shock me much anymore. Going into slums isn't scary or surprising, I can hear stories or see children who are dirty and have flies in their eyes and not think anything of it. When people ask me for money I just want to shout “I'm not my possessions!” rather than feel my heart moved to give. My heart has been hardened.
Yesterday my heart was broken for this family. As Gloria spoke, I started crying, and I sat there listening to this story, just crying in that small hut. The woman said “I know that God has taken care of us, we always have something to eat, and sometimes I get work washing clothes for other people.” We started to pray, all praying out loud together, and I couldn't speak. I couldn't get a single word out- even in my head, but I've never prayed harder in my life. I heard this verse: "Whenever you failed to do one of these things to someone who was being overlooked or ignored, that was me-you failed to do it to me.' – Jesus in Matthew 25:45 (the Message)
It feels very powerless to sit and pray and cry in front of someone, knowing that you will leave their lives but they will not leave those lives. I know that the heart of God breaks when He sees His Beloved children suffering in this way. But I don't have an answer for how we, as wealthy Americans, should be, how we should sit and cry out of compassion and love, and when we should act.
I am hoping that by sharing this story God will break your heart for the things that break His heart- the suffering and injustice of His beloved children. I pray that He puts His heart in you. I'm thankful for your support that allows me to share with you the stories and voices of people in Uganda, people in Nepal, people in the States who are suffering from injustice and broken promises.
Let your heart break,
Liz