When I lived in San Francisco, it was easy to forget sometimes how beautiful the buildings and the streets are or that homelessness is a major problem. In Hawaii, I would sometimes forget that the ocean was at my finger tips at all times, and I could spend weeks worrying about papers when I should have been taking a moment to enjoy the view or to learn more about a dwindling culture. In both instances I was able to really appreciate afterwards what it was that I had had in front of me. It’s easy to forget sometimes your context when you become comfortable in your routine. This week, however, I faced several reminders of why I’m here, and the reality of the situation I am faced with.
Monday, while riding into Kibera, I noticed a young boy (maybe around 8 years old) rummaging through the sewage in what looked like a desperate search for food. I watched as he picked up wrapper after wrapper, licking off the remaining flavors and pieces left behind, and then moved on to the next possible scrap. The night before, a friend and I had been discussing the power of feeding others and how bonds of love can be created and illustrated through food preparation and eating. It made me realize that the hunger the boy was experiencing, and will probably continue to encounter, not only affects his stomach but also takes away a beautiful experience of feeling cared for and loved. The image didn’t leave me all day, and that night, I couldn’t sleep.
Yesterday while in a presentation meeting for our peace initiative, I was struck with massive body aches, sweating, fever, and stomach pains. The day before I had eaten in Kibera (which I had done before with no issue), and realize now was quite reckless. The staff took me down to the CFK Tabitha clinic to get checked out. While in the waiting area, I noticed something I had not experienced before. The hall, which was filled with sick babies, was silent. It was evident that some of the children were very ill, but not a single one cried. They just sat bundled in their mother’s arms, some of them completely naked, watching their surroundings. Initially this may sound peaceful, but something about the silence frightened me, and made me wonder why children in different places behave so differently. Even in my own home, my little sister makes it very clear when something is bothering her, almost to the point of frustration. Is it true that someone can be so hungry, so tired, so energy less that they cannot cry? Or is there so little that can be done to satisfy needs that they have realized that tears will not bring about a solution? After receiving my diagnosis and medication (and thanking the Kenyan Gods for not giving me Malaria), I realized that no matter how comfortable I get, the health issues people face here are outside of my everyday understanding. Although this may seem obvious, without incident it’s easy to feel invincible, as if you can tackle anything, and to forget to respect what others are living with on a daily basis. And sitting in the waiting area, I felt like something was missing, and all I hoped was to hear a little life from the babies in the hall.
All of this in mind, however, I have also realized that sad stories of Kibera will not bring change. Instead, while remembering why I came, I try my best to focus on the incredible progress being made in the face of these challenges. Young women opening savings accounts to give them hope for an independent future. HIV positive groups working together to create crafts that they sell to support each other. Youth reclaiming sewage dump land to create recycling centers and turning trash into income. And a community that is working hard to maintain a peaceful living space after massive violence. Although the suffering of others is what motivated me to come, it’s these accomplishments in the community that give my experience and work here purpose and value for the community, myself, and anyone who walks away with a desire to give and support giving from reading these stories.
