Children of Africa

It's not a holiday on any American calendar... but June 16 is a HUGE day on this continent. It is "Children of Africa" day - a day to honor the rights of children.

The origins of this day come from very sober circumstances. On June 16, 1976 during the fight against Apartheid, children in Soweto, South Africa united to protest their educational rights. More than 10,000 children marched the streets to stand up against oppression. During that march police opened fire on the children and mayhem ensued. When it was all over 152 children lay dead in the streets. Protests and violence continued over the next year resulting in over 700 child casualties. Many years later it was decided to make June 16 a continental holiday - to CELEBRATE the African Child.

When I think about the many abuses against children on this continent I am filled with such sadness. I think of the sobering photos of Murambi school... During the Rwandan genocide over 45,000 people were killed at this school - many of them children and infants. The bones are still on display as a reminder of the horror that took place. Congo, our neighboring country is notorious for kidnapping children and forcing them to become soldiers - often making them murder their own family members as part of their initiation. I know of children who have come to Tanzania from Congo to escape such circumstances.

But the news-breaking stories that become internet sensation are only a small piece of the story. Each day there are less visual abuses against children. Here in our city of Mwanza I have been witness to many such crimes. Our city is filled with children who sleep in the gutters - there is no love for them from the government. While visiting them in the streets I myself have been chased away by police bearing AK47s, or by night watchmen armed with sticks to beat the kids and send them off to another gutter somewhere down the way. I remember a day in 2009 when police launched teargas into a crowd to disperse them. The can bounced off of the head of one of our kids leaving him alone and unconscious with a gaping head wound. We found him and helped him get treatment... 8 stitches running the length of his forehead. I recall the many wounds I have treated while visiting the children of the streets - stab wounds, bruises from beatings, injuries from being hit by cars and left to bleed in the streets, there was one child who's legs had been hacked with a hoe by some stranger...

Some days the police buses roam through the city here, gathering all of the street children in sight and hauling them off to the prison as a way of "cleaning house". There is no juvenile facility - so the kids get thrown into the same crowded cells with men. Over the following months those children will filter back to the streets and reclaim their beds along the gutters... but they return bearing the scars of prison life, and the unspoken abuses they no doubt endured.

All of this is horrible news and nobody wants their day ruined by such stories. It makes your stomach turn just to think about it... but it is a reality for so many children in the world. Abuse and hatred are their daily bread. Because of the many images ingrained in my memory - the horrors I have seen with my own eyes... that is why I do what I do. These children are the reason that our work is so important. For EVERY SINGLE CHILD who we can remove from the streets - there is hope that they can have healing and they can know that they are loved. And when we don't have sufficient resources to take in more kids, we still go to visit them where they are... to walk alongside them and to let them know they are not alone.

Watoto Wa Afrika (Children of Africa Day) - is a precious day in the lives of our kids. In Tanzania it has become known as the "National Birthday" for orphans and vulnerable children - many of whom have no idea when their true birthday is! It is a day for our kids to be honored and to know they have value.

I remember in 2005 when I first came to Tanzania - while visiting with some of these kids we were told the story of the bible when Jesus says "Let the children come to me". In the West we think of this story as a way of letting children know that Jesus loves them and that nobody can keep them from His side. The street children interpret this story in a very different way. They see that the children that Jesus was speaking to were children such as themselves - those who are homeless and unloved. They believe the disciples were trying to chase the kids away because such children are known to bear weapons and cause trouble - such children are known to be thieves. They believe the disciples were trying to protect Jesus from harm... but Jesus was not afraid of them. They see that Jesus loved those street kids in spite of their dirty clothes, unkempt hair, bad- possibly dangerous behavior...The kids of the street interpret "Let the children come to me", that Jesus was ready to walk beside them in their gutters and dumps, to hold them in His lap without a care if they might make Him dirty. His love was bigger than all of their blemishes.

We HOPE to show that same kind of love to our children - to let them know that NOT a single one of them is to "dirty" to be loved - we look for the beauty of each child, seeing past their scars. So on "Children of Africa" day - we remind them that they are important!

Redeemed

One of the most difficult statements that I have digested in my adult years regarding the Christian faith, came during orientation to my first mission organization. A group of about 17 potential missionaries gathered for a week of learning prior to getting our assignments. We had many different training sessions to help us prepare our minds for the sacrifice and commitment we were undertaking. We had just finished our lecture on risk assessment – many generations ago missionaries packed their belongings in a coffin and their bodies were mailed home in them (if the circumstances allowed) when their time on earth had come to an end - to go to the field was often a life sentence. During orientation we were given a hard look at the many martyrs who had indeed given everything for their beliefs. We were reminded of the missionaries left behind when their loved ones were killed, who continued on in the struggle to share the love of Christ – often meaning they had to keep walking alongside the ones who had brutally murdered their beloved. We discussed how important it was to truly accept and digest our own fate, knowing that it was worth it to lose everything so that just one person might gain everything. 

I was 25 years old - so young, yet having to think about what my calling was and weighing it against the possibility that my life could be ended far from the only world I had ever known. It’s not that missionaries have any more reason to ponder their mortality – we were reminded of a man in the local news who was stabbed to death while taking a walk in Philadelphia – not a martyr by any means though he was a Christian. The unfortunate can happen anywhere under any circumstance. I think the point of our lesson was to begin to grasp the truth that across the world, far from home, we would inevitably experience pain and suffering and have to find coping skills that could not come from the traditional places. We would have to turn to our Creator for peace, and lean on our new community when possible – accepting comfort in languages, customs, and traditions very dissimilar from our own. 

During my years in the field I have experienced many different losses. I can never forget the day I woke to learn that my dear 23 year old cousin had suddenly died from some mysterious illness. Being so far from “home” and in a world where I didn’t even have enough language to express my suffering to my community – it was indeed like passing through a great storm. Such difficult times would come to me again and again over the years. I came to understand something new about the experience of suffering… but that is another story for another time. 

After our final lectures on risk assessment - in that sobering and contemplative setting, surrounded by this diverse group of people from all demographic groups, a young black woman spoke. “Some days I wonder what my life would have been if my people had not been brought here as slaves – perhaps I would never have heard the gospel. Now I will return to them and share this treasure so that they too can know.” The room was filled with shocked silence… white people - especially Christians - often find it difficult to discuss things like slavery because it is such a volatile subject. It is this terrible stain on our history and we often don’t know how to confront it. Yet here this woman shared gratitude in spite of the suffering - where the trail of blood and tears ended, she found redemption in her own life - a reason to have joy.

Here in my last days of bed rest I have read many different books. I just finished a series of novels written by some of the very first published black American authors, describing the South after the civil war as former slaves fought for their rights. They endured unimaginable suffering, prejudice, hatred, disenfranchisement both in the South and the North… As I read I was filled with anger at the injustice that so many people experienced at the hands of people who refused to see them as human beings. Those scars of slavery are still visible in many places throughout the world. I need not go into all of the details… But after reading those books, I couldn’t help but recall my orientation - those young woman’s words and her gratitude that regardless of any amount of suffering the path of her life led to Christ.

My husband Paul comes from an unreached people group – meaning that less than 1% of his tribe have been exposed to the gospel. His tribe follows many traditional beliefs - worship of animals and a dependence on witchcraft. His people are notorious for closing their doors to outsiders. At about 7 years of age, Paul was estranged from his family. The years that followed took him down difficult roads of existence – the stories could fill many novels. He suffered through unthinkable years of survival, yet in the end he came to know Jesus. Christ reached to him in the most unfortunate circumstances and breathed life into him. Paul once said to me “If I had stayed in the village and never experienced the difficult life I was given, I would have never known Christ – I would be dependent on those false gods on whom my relatives still rely.” He explained to me that while he was on his difficult journey through life, he saw no light or reason to his suffering… yet in the end he has become a free man while those in his tribal family remain prisoners. Like that young woman so many years ago during orientation Paul was able to find redemption in the storm. 

This joy found in the tragedies of life has impacted me in so many ways. In the thick of the storm we can’t see the light and wonder if we have been forgotten. But there really is a big picture and God sees it. I would not say that God intended for these people to suffer so that they would come to know Him, rather that He takes the unthinkable, horrific, painful moments and He can turn them into something beautiful and redeeming.