Four weeks in another country may not seem like a long time, yet living in third world country, removed from the advantages of first world living can make it seem like an eternity. I can admit that I didn’t fully know what I was getting myself into when I packed my bags and set off for Kenya. I was fulfilling a life-long dream and I told myself that I was going to try to improve the lives of so many children. What I did not expect, was that while I would affect their lives, in turn, they would drastically change mine.
The trash lined streets grabbed my attention immediately as I made the short half-mile journey from the families’ home I was staying at, to the school where I would be teaching. As I looked out over the neighborhood, known as the Kibera Slums, where I would be living, I watched men and women pick their way through the garbage in search of their morning meal. The look on their faces was that of someone who had given up and was heartbreaking to watch as the realization sunk in that there was nothing I could do.
I walked into the doors of the school and the children greeted me with screams of “Teacher Nikki!” and I braced myself as they ran to hug me. I was entirely taken back by the pure happiness that was exuding from each smiling face. Although their clothes were torn and shabby and their faces were matted with dirt, they did not seem to care. The joy they felt at being the few children in the area to receive an education emanated out of every word and expression they shared.
After a few days working in the school, the overpowering stench that leaked out of a closet in the small courtyard became unbearable, even more so upon realizing that this is the children’s bathroom. It was a small square area with a wooden door that only locked from the outside with a small circular area in the floor that served as a toilet.
The Havilla Children’s Centre, provides each child with two snacks every day and a lunch, none of which should be enough to sustain a child. And yet, they eat the same food every single day without complaint, even though their lunch consists of a small portion of white rice with watered down beans and cabbage mixed in.
Additional cups of water are poured into the container with the beans so there is more food to go around. The children receive a small slice of banana or watermelon alongside their meal and when each child has received their morsel, the few bites that are left are passed out accordingly.
Upon announcing that there are some extra pieces of watermelon, the kids swarm around me and begin reaching for the plate. My first thought is they are like vultures, crowding around me and trying to get the last crumb of food.
Their hands are in front of my face, I can’t breathe, and I raise the tray high above their heads for fear of them knocking it down. They yell “Teacher! Teacher! Teacher!” hoping I will hear them and put a morsel of food in their tiny outstretched hand. The youngest kids tug on my shirt to get my attention since they are not tall enough for me to see them.
The image of being so young and having to fight for food because of the uncertainty of when my next meal will be is one that becomes ingrained on my memory.
The message of resilience and determination is everywhere in the walls of the school as the children share their hopes and their dreams. When they are asked what they want to be when they grow up, you don’t hear the things you’d expect of a 7-year-old.
As a young girl, when someone older asked what we wanted to be, we said an astronaut, a ballerina, a professional baseball player or, in my case, a champion figure skater. And yet, when you ask the children of the Havilla Children’s Centre what they want to be when they get older, you hear things like a pilot or a lawyer, a doctor or a pastor; proof that they are reaching for a brighter future.
When the lunch-rush is over, the volunteers take turns washing dozens of dishes alongside the school’s cook, Leonand. He is a very curious man as he wants to know what life outside of Africa is like. He asks about home and if we wash dishes by hand, like we do at the school. The notion that in the States we have machines that wash our dishes for us, causes him to turn away from the tub of brown water to stare at me in surprise.
His announcement that he would love to see this machine that washes dishes comes with the message that he much prefers to hand wash dishes as he tells me that in Kenya, they are not afraid of a little hard work. The following comment strikes me as humorous and sad as he tells me that when I go home, I should teach the people at my work to wash dishes by hand, so they will know how to work hard too.
The opportunity to volunteer in this culture comes with a price, as visiting the center of the Kibera Slums was important in order to understand and see where the children from the school live.
Upon entering the slums there could be no mistaking where I was as the stench of garbage, filth, and body odor filled my nose. The view was unbelievable as you could easily see piles of trash, small mountains of it, everywhere. A stream running through the slums is not the picture of tranquility as it is polluted, filled with trash and the rotting corpses of animals. The sight left me speechless and uncomfortable with the knowledge of the many comforts we have at home that are as simple as the streets being devoid of trash.
The family I was staying with lived on the edge of the slums and, while they occasionally did not have electricity and the shower consisted of a small stream of water that only had one temperature, boiling, they did have access to a small selection of television channels. I began to notice that their son spent many evenings watching Disney Channel, the same show my nephew watches at home.
The reality of the situation is incredible as I realize how amazing it is that halfway around the world, I still am finding ways that culture doesn’t matter. We are all inherently the same.
Upon returning home, it became hard to look around at the large homes and neatly manicured lawns and not compare it to the harsh realities of Kenya. Their lives, while far from simple, are led with a fervor that cannot be fully grasped until it has been experienced and there are days when I truly wish we could learn more from them.
One day maybe I’ll go back, but for now I’ll settle for remembering those I met with fondness and hoping that their futures are infinitely better than their pasts.
Discover Your Voice 