A Light in Africa
Stories drift out of Africa like clouds of smoke: floating gently in the wind, carrying the faint scent of pain, suffering, and death. There are whispers of disease, murder, abandonment, and unfathomable poverty that travel thousands of miles and seep into magazines, newspapers, charity advertisements, and televised news. Images flicker across television screens of dark-skinned children with bloated bellies, young mothers holding malnourished babies, delicate old men breathing shakily through skeleton-like bodies. And then there are stories of war: of genocide, child-soldiers trained to kill, mass slaughter, governments infiltrated with greed and corruption. In so many places of the world This Is Africa: a continent ravaged by AIDS, starvation, violence, and despair, needing desperately to get back on its feet.
But this is not the Africa that took shape for me over my two-week long stay in Kenya and Tanzania. I arrived with the sun early on a Monday morning; a brilliance of red and orange reflected against the wings of the plane as I descended through drifts of clouds to the earth below. Perhaps it is appropriate that I, a third-year college student on my first trip to Africa, arrived on that continent amidst the glory of the morning sun. I was about to discover not only some of the greatest treasures of nature, but of humanity as well.
As I touched down on African soil, I brought with me a vision of Africa shaped and molded by my American upbringing: that exotic, distant place smoldering in the ashes of pain and violence. Yes; it offered the wonders of nature, the mystery of a new people and culture, but was plagued by a perpetual bout of desperation. My pulse quickened at the thought of exotic animals: golden-maned lions shrouded in pride, delicate, long-necked giraffes, stony-faced rhinos, a relishing cheetah with its prey, and more besides. Vast plains of green ran into deep valleys and mountains, sunsets melted the sky in a riot of crimson and orange. In a way, I knew what to expect of nature; natural beauty has a way of penetrating the heart and evoking awe into even the most impregnable of minds. It was the people that remained distant and intangible, a cloudy formation in my imagination. And yet I came to them thinking that I knew something of their lives and perhaps their suffering. But I did not.
I was seduced by the deceptive effects of modern technology. That to see the movies, the television stories, to read novels and magazine articles, to study history and anthropology, to be an educated and sensitive person- is enough to have some understanding of a people or a place. Yet to know is to hear, to taste, to see, to greet, to talk, to eat, smile, feel, and laugh. To know Africa at all, even in the remotest sense, is to be there. Toppled-down houses and makeshift homes filled every street, children wearing little more than rags played in mud puddles, women wearing brightly covered clothing balanced baskets or fruit atop their heads, little boys no more than four years old herded sheep and goats with sticks, and everywhere people were walking- scarcely a car on the ditch-covered roads. Masai villages dotted the open terrain, sporting mud huts with straw roofs- where entire families lived inside these dark, dank, one-roomed structures.
Families went about their days in the steady, methodic pace of a flowing river. Each moment was paid extra care, as if time itself was something fragile, to be treasured for its mere existence. The most basic of daily duties- preparing the evening meal- could take all day. An hour's walk to the nearest well for water, squeezing milk from the family goat, gathering and chopping vegetables from the garden, on a lucky day perhaps the slaughter of a calf. Survival became entwined with the lives of family, friends, and neighbors- through the solidarity of their common lifestyle.
It was like entering another world- and not one that I had constructed in my over-active imagination, but something real and present that I could feel and hear and taste. As I greedily absorbed the freshness of the new place around me, I nonetheless found myself conflicted with feelings of frustration, pity, and awe. Who were these people that could live so simply, so practically without the necessities of western society? Why must they move so slowly? How do they live like this? I heard my questions echoed in the voices of my fellow American and European companions- perhaps with an extra tone of disbelief and irritation. Freshly finished with a semester abroad, we students all had different reasons for being there- whether for the adventure of safari, the challenge of climbing Mount Kilamanajaro, the painful warmth of volunteering- and yet we were all in a sense stranded together. Perhaps we felt stung with the rawness of our obvious differences- namely the conspicuous disguise of being white Caucasians amidst a sea of Black Africans. Perhaps we were simply overwhelmed with what nowadays people like to term "culture shock." Perhaps we were disgusted with the dusty roads, un-kept toilets, begging hands. And perhaps we thought we knew better.
I do not pretend to think that two weeks in Africa is enough time to fully understand a people, a culture, and a way of life. Indeed, such an assertion is ludicrous; scholars, writers, politicians, and many more have spent the entirety of their lives searching for such "answers." But I was there. And I saw something that was beautiful, terrible, breathtaking, and heart wrenching- all in one. Yet there are people-too many-who, consciously or not, make judgments about the darkness of the place and can only see a people floundering in a backwards culture. Centuries of African traditions are now raised up against the standards of western society: bustling consumer centers painted with flashing billboards and advertisements, fashion experts spouting images of the ideal man or woman, swarms of loyal fans gathering weekly in front of the television. As I stood amidst an expanse of African tundra with a small village of straw-and-mud-huts nearby, I couldn't help but think, what if we didn't get it right? What if there is some essential element we are missing? What if westerners should be learning from Africans? It had dawned on me that I, like so many others, had had my vision of Africa clouded with my preconceived ideas of their humanitarian suffering- only to discover that there was a glowing radiance of their culture that should shine throughout the world.
This is not to say that the African culture is flawless- or in any way superior to the multiplicity of cultures throughout the globe. Indeed, I saw many things that I found disheartening and even disturbing on a basic, human level. The Masai, a people with a rich culture of centuries long, still practice female genital mutilation today. Upon a visit to one of the many villages abound in the countryside, I heard a young man explain matter-of-factly that this tradition is necessary for girls to pass into womanhood. Every woman I met in that village had been subject to this intensely painful, dangerous practice. There are also a plethora of skewed, superstitious beliefs amongst Africans concerning AIDS: that sleeping with a virgin will get rid of the virus, that the wuzungu (white persons) brought it to Africa, that maximizing sexual activity will be rid of the disease.
I do not wish to look at African culture with rose-colored glasses; I know there are a multitude of problems that need to be addressed desperately. But such negativities should not represent the entire identity of this culture; the bad must be taken with the good. And it is only by understanding and learning from them first that healing and growth can be nurtured. Perhaps there is an essential lesson that can be taken from the vastly different slowness and simplicity of their society. Maybe it is time to listen to those who are not running the global show, but have insight into a way of life that has seemingly been, tragically, lost.
There are few who can find it within themselves to do this; to disentangle oneself from the cultural prejudices so deeply ingrained inside takes a certain kind of strength. Indeed, it may be argued that a higher purpose- of a selfless nature- is necessary to truly become a beacon of light for Africa. It takes unconditional acceptance, courage, and compassion to truly help and heal. And it needs to work both ways: Africa to the world, the world to Africa. I saw this vision of brightness- of simultaneous learning and loving- kindled by the spirit of one woman.
I met Mamma Lynn for the first time on a Sunday morning at the gates of her self-run orphanage in Moshi, Tanzania; after a week of safari I had parted from my fellow American students for a different adventure of my own. Climbing out of the taxi, I swung my soiled and travel-worn bags over my shoulders and made my way up to the front door of a warmly decorated gift shop. I would later find out that all of the things in the shop were made by local people- elderly women who were not able to come down from their mountainside huts to sell their goods, nearby villagers who struggled to make any income, and an older disabled man who had a talent for crafts. Walking away from her desk, Mamma Lynn came forward, took my hands in hers, and smiled into my eyes: Karibu she said: Welcome. Although she was an older woman, I immediately recognized a spark and spirit about her that may be termed unusual, or extraordinary. Her eyes silently spoke of her wisdom, and of some deeper burden that she bore- perhaps, I thought, of pain.
I was soon to discover the mystery behind Mamma Lynn's simultaneous energy and despairing heaviness. It becomes a necessary way of life when working at a place like Light in Africa, the appropriate name for Mamma Lynn's Tanzanian orphanage. She came to Tanzania in 2000 from the UK on what she eloquently describes as a spiritual calling of a need to help the children of Africa. It took mere weeks before she was able to pull together the money and materials to realize her vision. It is amazing to say that her orphanage has grown from housing two children in 2000 to the now 150 orphans of today. Children of all ages are warmly welcomed into the arms of Mamma Lynn and the many volunteers and employees that make Light in Africa a reality. They not only are given a place to sleep, healthy meals, and an education- but are also nurtured and given hope by the loving spirits of those that care for them.
Mamma Lynn has made it her duty to provide for orphaned children, but, as she pledges, she will not turn anyone away, and indeed takes it upon herself to include everyone. She has the wisdom to see that helping a community- or a country- get back on its feet- involves the entire community, and change needs to come from the people. It is here that Mamma Lynn's compassionate wisdom thrives. Without passing judgment, she is willing to embrace a people and culture not her own, recognize their talents, and nurture their skills so that they have the capacity to represent themselves in the future. Her outreach efforts extend to the surrounding, otherwise isolated villages and out even to the dangerous Tanzanite mining communities: medical dispensaries offer free medical care, education programs help with the self-sufficiency of uneducated or disabled villagers, funding provides school uniforms and supplies, and seminars preach HIV prevention methods. Mamma Lynn tells us in a matter-of-fact tone, "All of these things are provided solely by God's grace. We are all human beings and have a duty to help each other in any way we can."
Indeed, helping people has become a way of life for her; she sees those who need her, and she responds with compassion. During my stay, there were two Babus (an affectionate term for "older man" in Swahili) who she had taken under her care that had been abandoned by their families, and left to die. One man she had found nearly skin and bones on the side of the road- left because his family members could no longer afford to take care of him. With the assistance of another man, she brought him to Light in Africa, and laid him outside on the grass- unable to move him any further he was so sick, and the stench of his unwashed body so strong. The other man, also abandoned by his family, was found having an epileptic seizure because he could not afford proper medical treatment.
After spending a few days at the orphanage, I found myself feeling emotionally drained- caught between admiration at the resilience I saw, and the heart-wrenching sorrow of their painful realities. Mamma Lynn spun stories of orphans, and of desperate men and women- as though they were her own. She spoke of the young teenage-girl who wandered around the volunteer headquarters, smiling shyly now and then, but mentally unstable and known to have violent outbursts where she would throw rocks at people. Raped by her father as a little girl, Elizabeth's one-year-old son stays in the orphanage nursery, where she visits him occasionally. He is joined in the nursery by 15 other babies, 4 of whom are HIV positive, several who were abandoned by their mothers: left to die on mud-hut floors. Mamma Lynn also tells us of a baby found maggot-covered in a latrine, of children digging a grave for their youngest sibling, of boys afraid to go to school for fear of being beaten, of witch-doctors promoting the sacrifice of infants.
Now let her tell a story in her own words: Whilst living on the mountain and opening our first children's home, I was asked by the local village chairman to assist an orphan to remove some "chiggers" from his feet. (A chigger is a parasite that burrows into the skin and eats the flesh, it is very painful, and most active at night).
I walked to the village accompanied by a porter, and was directed to a locked hut. A young women, appeared with a key and unlocked the padlock. The door swung open and a boy came out crawling on hands and feet, and then tried to stand. I assisted him up, but his legs could not hold his torso, so the porter carried him to an outside table. I started to remove the chiggers and the child started to cry.
Next I was aware of the young women who had opened the door appear with a branch in her hand and started to strip the outer layers of the branch off, she then came to the table to beat the child, for crying in front of a "wazungu", (a european, white person). That was enough for me, I asked the porter to pick the child up and he carried him all the way to the center.
For the next 4 months I did not have a full nights sleep. I would go to bed and be woken by the watchmen knocking on my window with "Mama, Juli's out". I would put on my dressing gown and go outside to see Juli on all fours trying to pick tiny pieces of food from off the ground, I would take him into the kitchen and give him a drink of milk and a slice of bread and put him back to bed. Two to three hours later, the same procedure would be repeated, until his brain told him that he was going to receive three full square meals per day, and he did not need to scavenge anymore.
It is one thing to hear these stories, drifting in as though from another universe, seemingly unreal and unimaginable. And it is another to see, and feel, and hold those who have experienced it. I can tell that it wrenches Mamma Lynn's heart to tell us these things, just as it wrenches mine to walk over to the nursery and hold in my arms a beautiful, dark-eyed baby I know is HIV positive and abandoned by her mother. It is when I hear stories such as these that I understand where the perpetual heaviness and pain of Mamma Lynn's gaze comes from. There is so much to be hopeful for- she does so much good with so much energy. And yet, at the end of the day, she still has to face the reality of the people she helps. She shares in their pain, as well as their hope. And yet they are so resilient. When I go to work at Pilgrim House, the boy's home a short ride away on the local public transport, I am welcomed by streams of children who run up smiling, grabbing my hand, hugging my stomach, and stretching out their arms to be swept up off the ground. They love to play games, do art projects, swing on ropes, slide down on my lap, throw water balloons, eat candy, and drink soda. Even beyond their unblemished, dark, smiling faces is the beauty of their laughter, their courage to know happiness in the face of the destitution that surrounds them. They are so hungry for love, perhaps even more so than for the regular meals provided by the orphanage.
And Mamma Lynn gives it to them. She shows them a world that is not cruel or greedy or despairing. Through her they become a light for Africa.
This is the Africa the world should embrace: not that of horror, of death, of rage, but the ever-emerging community of hope. Yes, horrible things are happening every day; people are dying, children are born orphans, governments lie and cheat and steal, women are exploited beyond belief. I left an orphanage in Tanzania two weeks ago- where babies are fighting for their lives and children look desperately into my eyes and tell me their mothers are not coming back. But I left a true Light in Africa that is doing astounding things for hundreds upon hundreds of people. It is stories like this one that should be lifted up above all the others- not for its tragedy- but for its courage and strength and hope.
It is this unconditional love- given without question, without judgment, without fear- that will bring healing. Yet the love and light of one person- however bright- cannot, and should not stand alone. Let not one, but many kindle a willingness to humbly embrace something exceedingly foreign, and be taught. Only then may the world see that Africa's Heart of Darkness is a myth shrouded in misunderstanding. In the words of Nigerian author Ben Okri, "No injustice lasts for ever, no love ever dies, no light is ever really extinguished." Where, may I ask-with perhaps an extra note of hope and as a plea to my readers- will the next light for Africa shine from?
Meghan Casey, the author, volunteered with Light In Africa in May 2007