Thorns in the flesh

Recently I have been thinking about the passages in the Bible that talk about Paul and the thorn in his flesh. There are many opinions of what exactly this thorn was: bad eyesight, another sickness or something completely different. The last two months I have had continual problems with my eyes. I have had symptoms of pink eye that doesn’t go away no matter what I try – new contacts, wearing glasses, medication, etc nothing works. It has been my “thorn” and I can’t get rid of it.  

A few weeks ago while driving to work at the normal 7:52am hour. In front of me in the road, or rather the path the Congolese (and us) use as a road stood an old lady bent over almost at 180° trying to manage her skirt falling down with one hand and her walking stick with the other. Travelling back and forth between the house and office, we see this elderly lady almost daily. She has been affectionately been termed “Grandma” and everyone knows who you are talking about.

After a few minutes a kind pedestrian added Grandma with her skirt and escorted her out of the middle of the road so we could pass. I began to think that the thorn in my flesh isn’t so prickly. We also pass this lady every day and you sort of become immune or jaded to what pain she must experience on a daily basis hunched over. You just don’t think about. It’s normal.

After experiencing this I was interested in what the Bible really says about Paul’s thorn. Doing a bit of research, I found out that maybe Paul didn’t have a physical sickness or rather his thorn was something else. Some Bible commentaries suggest that Paul’s thorn was the amount of “light” he was given and responsibility that carried in furthering the gospel message. The interesting thing is that it never seemed like Paul’s thorn ever went away, it was something he lived with for a long time. He felt obligated to continue his work despite everything he went through, the suffering he endured.

So perhaps after all my thorn (eyes) isn’t the same as Paul’s as I initially thought. However if Paul’s thorn really was the responsibility he felt for carrying the gospel message, well then, I could possible relate. Living in working in Congo often carries an obligation to advocate. You witness so many human rights violations, corruption, and injustices. It is hard to be silent. As my profession is the minority of my social circle, this type of environment provokes a feeling of responsibility or personal guilt in the need to share the realities.

While reading the passages about Paul’s thorn, he suffered so much as a result: beatings, imprisonment, abandonment, and finally his life. I can’t say that my thorn hasn’t inflected such pain to the same degree. Paul is a model of perseverance and commitment, one example I can draw strength from on those days that Congo is hard to handle or feel like life is beating me up. I imagine that Paul’s thorn helped him achieve many great things to the glory of God.

Another memory...

I am tired of dust. I am tried of bumpy roads. I am tired of being asked a thousand questions everyday. I am tired of the same routine. I am tired of the same food. I am tired of being called after and whistled at. I am tired of land cruisers. I am tired of keeping my never ending to-do list up to date and all those deadlines in my head . I am tired of excel. I am tired of the dark circles under my eyes. I am tired of being tired.

Living in Africa isn’t always an adventure. It definitely isn’t always exotic. And it most certainly isn’t filled with elephants, lions, and majestic stary nights every day. Living in Africa, definitely Congo, can be draining, mundane, and stressful. It has a knack of wearing on your mind, body, and spirit all at the same time.

This past week everything about Congo sucked ! I am creeping up on the two year mark. Most of the other NGO’s we work alongside have contracts of 3-6months. And the coping mechanism for the majority of those people is smoking or drinking their time in Congo away. Two years is unheard of and two years not under the influence is even more unheard of.

I think there must be something about being in Congo for two years. I have seen it with every foreigner who has managed to survive this long in this country. They get irritated, annoyed, bored, and just exhausted. I vowed this would never be me. I love Congo. I love my staff. I love my job (for the most part). How could I ever go down that road of complete frustration ?

This past week my frustration and irritation wasn’t my choice. It smacked me in the face. I was caught completely off guard. One day I was fine, then next day I was falling apart. I am known to be the calm, level headed, even keel, don’t show the stress person in our team. That persona was shot to hell this week. I was irritated with team mates, impatient with others, and even lashed out at the cashier at the bank.

Aside from church over the weekend, I have hibernated at home. I have hibernated in hopes that two days of the weekend would be enough to get over my slump. I also hoped that my nice house, good food, and comfortable bed would be the only things I see therefore forget where I am for 48hrs.

This afternoon I have been working on my resume. It was a good reflection and reminder to see how much I have learned and gained these last two years in Congo. The skills and knowledge I will take away at the end of all of this are invaluable : a second language, management experience, living and working in a conflict zone, and being responsible for a $6 million budget not to mentioned the amazing people I have lived and worked alongside that have not only challenged me but shown me love, grace, and endurance.

I hope and pray that when tomorrow strikes 8am on Monday morning, I will be able to remember all of the blessings this country has brought me. I will be renewed with the strength and passion that led me here two years ago. I am going to strive to have a little more grace towards this country, despite its annoying corruption that has its hand in everything. But I mostly I hope I remember that Congo, just like everywhere else in this world, has its blessings and it’s trials and its good and its bad. This week will someday too be just another memory made in the Bongo.

Lessons from Greece

I learned all of the tricks of hospitality as a child. My mother was a master hostess. I was taught how to properly set a table; prepare food for 30 people and then find out how to fit them all in a three bedroom house; that you should turn the temperature of the house down because it will soon be full and body heat will compensate; and how to sit properly at the table, say "yes, please" and "no, thank you." Despite the training, I can't say that hospitality is my gift - and I definitely believe it is a gift. My sister also received the gift of hospitality and creativity in that. I do appreciate it though because I know all of the work that goes on behind the scenes.

While on my vacation, a friend of mine asked me what was one of my favorite experiences. I told him dinner at a restaurant on Santorini Island in Greece. My friend Bianca and I arrived to our hotel after hiking hill and dale with our suitcases for about 1.5miles and asked where we could eat dinner. The spunky receptionist suggested a restaurant up the hill we had just hiked down, pretty much the only one in town as well. Unbeknownst to us, we didn't walk into a restaurant but into a Greek family's dining room - or at least that is what it felt like.

We made our orders but somehow the food and the drinks, which we didn't order, just kept coming. The owner asked us questions about ourselves, told us his story about the restaurant, and chit chatted as if we were long lost friends back in town. When we went to leave, we shook hands with gratitude but hugs felt like a more natural exchange. We were happy that our walk back to the hotel was downhill with our exploding stomachs. Our host invited us to come back two days later to celebrate Greece's Independence Day.

Two days later arrived. It was rainy so we were a bit locked up inside our hotel. There was no way we were going to miss this celebration, especially at a place that was so warm and welcoming. Unfortunately due to the weather, inside seating was limited and we didn't have a reservation. All of the tables were reserved, and for good reason! Since our host had invited us specifically, he removed the "reserved" sign from one of the tables without hesitaiton and seated us.

The service, conversation, and hospitality was no different. We were two tourists witnessing the culture that Greece is known for: music, laughter, dancing, eating and drinking. Every person who walked into the restaurant was known by name and received a warm welcome along with a hug and two kisses. Bianca and I sat there and took in the experience feeling like we were living a scene out of the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding. We didn't want to take pictures as that would crack the moment; plus sometimes an enjoyed experience is more valuable than a photograph.

We eventually had to leave and give up our reserved table for those it was actually intended for. Yet again we departed with bursting tummies but even more touched hearts. Experiencing such amazing hospitality from a stranger is very humbling, especially when it isn't really required as we were just customers looking for some food.

It seems as though hospitality is a lost art, at least in a few places I have lived, or it has become more of a social obligation rather than a genuine expression of love. I was humbled by the kindness of strangers I met in Greece and it has challenged me to share that with others. I may not have the gift of hospitality but I can try to love a stranger as I love myself.

"The Field..."

The humanitarian circle is full of abbreviations, acronyms, and catch phrases. A good part of my graduate school was spent learning acronyms found in this sector. The millennial generation has a lot in common with the humanitarian world in their love of acronyms but instead of LOL, BFF, brb, and l8r, humanitarians use NFI’s, OCHA, NGO, UNICEF, CFW, and so many more. In addition, a common phrase is « the field. » Everyone knows this term means outside of the office, usually the place where the projects we support are physically located or implemented. If someone goes out on a mission, they usually say « I am going to the field. » After that fact is established, « the field » is then defined more specifically including directions and names of towns or coordinates. 

I am not sure why going on a mission is termed as going to the field but once verbalized imaginary implications automatically surface. I guess in English a field can be defined as a empty space, not much existing there, sort of brushy, and not particularly a pleasant place to be nor one that holds much attraction – a similar definition of « the field » when used in the humanitarian sense just implying more potential of adventure. 

Three weeks ago I went to the field. I don’t have many opportunities to work outside of my office due to the level of my work load. It is hard to answer 60 emails a day when literally in a field. To be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to this adventure which is quite unusual for me. I think my hesitation was provoked by the stack of papers on my desk that would only grow in my absence but also the security situation I knew I was getting myself into. 

My trip was going to take place over the course of two days, including an overnight stay in a town that was secure but surrounded by militia activity. The route we traveled is the most insecure axe that we work on. In addition, I was told to be the first white person to travel that axe since the war started, thus early 2000’s. I have been in other places before where people had never seen a white person before. It was again the case on this trip, however, the older generation had seen white people before. In safer times, there were many missionaries in this region that fled as a result of the war. I can’t say that the militia were too impressed with my presence but the local communities were. Despite the stories I heard, it seemed as though the face of a white person gave hope that their situation was improving and it was now safe enough for one to dare travel their roads. 

As anticipated the road was full of militia movements. Mid-trip we received advice from one of the hospitals to be careful because « these militia are aggressive. » It’s quite an interesting sensation to look into the eyes of a militia man or should I say boy. You know the person you are looking at has most likely killed, raped, and stole as that is how they survive. In addition, you are looking at someone who has done all of this and is as young as 13. They are also quite frequently on some form of natural or unnatural substances. Combining substance abuse with political motives, a hard life filled with suffering, and a AK-47 creates a very unpredictable person. Me being white and female also provides various options to exercise opportunistic tendencies. 

In between each town with militia presence is the Congolese Army (FARDC) and the UN’s mission (MONUSCO). While driving, I would take a sigh of relief and give my heart a break when we arrived in one of the later two’s territory. And also between all of this mix are our health centers I was going to meet. 

Despite the circumstances, it is really amazing to be able to support the communities that we are. All of these communities are victim’s in the crossfire of these three political and military actors. We are helping people who are displaced by non-stop conflict, children, and violated women. It messes with your mind a bit to look into the faces of the perpetrators and the victims within the same space, which they do as well themselves as there is no way to escape. 

I found myself being the listening ear throughout this trip. We would stop at medical clinics and hospitals and people would share their stories of what was going on. At one hospital the doctor was exhausted. He recounted stories to us : the night before someone had been kidnapped, a week before two children were burned alive in their home, three days before a woman was gang rapped and still hadn’t sought medical treatment. The constant state of insecurity was wearing on him. In addition, we put him at risk because we showed up to the hospital – a white person and a car = money was exchanged. Another person we met told us 17 homes had been burned down and the clinic looted. Now the whole community, including himself, wife, and children were living in the forest too scared to go back. And to what, burned down houses?

The second day on our way back home I was getting irritated. Roads in Congo aren’t easy to travel. It was blazing hot. Dust everywhere. My colleagues hasn’t planned our stops as well as they should have thus forcing us to back-track a few times. It was Friday – so already tired of a week of work. One person in the group noticed and asked if I was ok. In the moment, I was quite harsh on myself thinking, - I can’t handle two days in the field ?! I used to live this every day in Tanzania. Have I gone soft ? I also thought why am I irritated ? I am driving in a land cruiser opposed to everyone else we passed on a motorbike with them their whole family. I didn’t spend the night in a mud hut, I had eaten that day, and I wasn’t suffering from medical condition like so many we had come in contact with throughout the trip. 

We took the same route back home as there was no other option. About half way, I knew we had to go through a town that yesterday was quite heavily armed with a militia group. They occupied both the entrance and the exit a few kilometers apart. We made it safely through the outer-edge of town where a traditional mud hut was occupied by at least 20 militia. They saw the vehicle approaching and one of them placed himself directly in the middle of the road. He made a hand gesture for us to stop. Us driving a right handed vehicle and me being in the passenger seat meant I was the closest person to the group. My stomach jumped to my throat and my heart beat out of control. I could also sense my Congolese travelers hesitation and hear their shallow gasp of breath – making me more nervous. Just as the vehicle came to a halt, another militia distracted the one in the middle of the road and they starting fighting. It provided the window of opportunity we needed to escape and drove the car as quickly as possible passed them. Following in our wake was a pile of dust and a potentially terrible situation. We exhaled. 

This incident came after my mental reprimand for being irritated but now I had a different perspective and gave myself a bit more grace for how I was feeling. The last 36hrs I had lived in a constant state of alert. I was mentally exhausted leading to a physical, unconscious reaction. Needless to say by the time I got home, I didn’t feel guilty for being happy to back in my house with my bed, flush toilet, and most importantly a safer environment. 

But at the end of the day, Congo is suffering. Congo has suffered for a REALLY long time, too long. My trip to the field brought that more real to me than ever. Seeing first hand the people, the weapons, and the victims all caught up in this mess covered in a layer of dust masking the reality allowing the majority of this world to be ignorant of this conflict is very sobering. My trip to the field wasn’t exactly pleasant but I can never say it is an empty space with nothing existing there – all too much is being allowed to exist in this field. 

                                  (A health clinic we support. If you are sick, you sleep here)