Hope Does Not Disappoint Us

It’s funny how you can literally feel hope leaving your body.

Your body tenses up. You want nothing more than to retreat into a state of apathy. You sigh. You feel utterly helpless.

It seems easier to turn away and create some distance from the situation. Scratch that.

It is easier.

Giving up though has never been an option for me.

Last week, with everything happening with the kids at Kissemahn, I was exhausted. I was so drained, and just so tired. I wanted desperately to understand the situation better, to know perfectly well what we could do to help, and more than anything, I wanted the kids to be okay.

When you realize your own limitations though, it’s hard not to want to remove yourself entirely. I almost reached that point. I was on the edge of wanting to call it quits; I was thinking that there was NOTHING I could do to help. I figured that this was above and beyond my understanding and that being the hero of this situation was not only grossly off the mark, but quite frankly, inappropriate. How dare we come into a community assuming we have the answers, assuming we could make things right.

Much of this, I believe is right. I still believe that this is beyond my understanding and that we can’t be the heroes and end all of the pain in this community. It realistically just can’t happen.

So, I prayed. A lot.

I think I got my answer today, as Rachel and I had some quiet meditation in the courtyard of our hostel. I found a little piece of affirmation. I reflected on the past week I had at Kissemahn—making a solar system with the kids, spending time with Rukia, walking around Christian Village, and teaching, really teaching—and realized that the last thing I can do, or want to do, is to retreat away from this community. Yes, I want the community to work on solving these serious issues, even seeking our help when appropriate, but the best thing that WE can do is to just continue to support these kids. Even more than that, support them by believing. We have to believe that problems like this may never fully disappear, but that with hope God will provide. It’s not simple. But, in some ways, it kind of is.

Hope does not disappoint us.

I read this from Romans 5:1-5 and made this my prayer today.

When the girls from Kissemahn came over today—Gloria, Akos, Rukia, Maame, Margaret, and Sala—I repeated this in my head. Hope does not disappoint us. Today, we painted the girls’ nails, danced to our favorite Ghanaian music, ate a ridiculous amount of jollof, chicken, and egg at the night market, let the girls shower at our hostel, and tried to chat with the girls about boys. We tried to gauge an understanding about what they know about boys and babies, just to see if they even understand that rape is a bad thing. We made a little progress, not very much in the grand scheme of things, but it’s the first step in trying to help these girls, I think. We came back after taking the girls back to their homes and I was just so tired.

But, I was hopeful, which means a lot to me these days.

I am hopeful that the girls will be okay, I am hopeful that the girls will one day be educated and can do big things in their lives, and I am hopeful that these girls will one day understand how loved and wonderful they are. Yes, tonight I will go to bed hopeful, a feeling I have been missing and needing this entire week.

Hope does not disappoint us.

It’s true. I know it’s true because I have lived that while I have been in Ghana. I came to this country, hoping to have my eyes opened, hoping to understand a totally different way of living, and hoping to embrace this journey as much as I could. Everything has been exceeded. I came to Ghana, carrying only 2 suitcases and a backpack, with lots of questions, assumptions, and worry. Here I am, with a month left to go, realizing that I am not that same girl who stepped off that plane into the intense and humid African heat. It’s a good thing, really. I have gotten used to everything here, and with that, comes change. The weird things that I found the first month or so here are just a part of everyday life. I say “no shakin”, I snap my fingers with the other person when greeting someone with a handshake, I run even more late to things and never worry because there seems to be an unspoken adherence to “Ghana time”, and I will even test my Twi abilities with people in the market by speaking one of my four go-to phrases. You know, your basic “Ete sen?” (how are you?) or “Medasse” (Thank you). I’m not very good, but I will certainly try.

More so though, I have spent a lot of time thinking about why I do things I do, and why I want to do the things I do later in my life. I think about what really matters, honestly. I think about the painful things I have witnessed, and wonder if such a thing as justice really does exist. I question what I have spent my entire life believing in. I try and understand more about the place I come from, a place that I think I have come to understand a little better since being away. I don’t know, but being here in Africa has encouraged me to ask the hard, difficult, painful questions. I don’t really have a lot of answers, at least fully developed answers, but when I reflect on being in Africa months and years from now, who knows what I might find.

Yes, in many ways, this place has become a home to me. Catching tro-tros, eating mango, sitting in the hostel for hours talking to my friends, and living without air conditioning has become a part of the routine here. It’s become comfortable. I hoped for that when I stepped on the plane to leave Denver back in January, a few short days after turning 21. I hoped to find a home. I did.

Hope does not disappoint us.

Rukia playing field hockey

Hanging with the kids, getting ready to watch The Lion King

Kissemahn--Salem, Gosway, and Forgive

Gosway

Red, Gold, Green, Ghana Colors

what you feel is what you are, and what you are is beautiful.

One reason I came to Ghana was to study social work. I was looking for a place that had English as the official language, a place that would push me completely out of my comfort zone, and a place that I could discern whether or not social work was something that I wanted to pursue in my life.

The notion of studying social work almost seems ironic now. I am doing social work.

I anticipated that I would stumble upon situations that I was entirely unprepared for. I expected that; this is Africa. I have seen poverty in ways that are indescribable, I have seen brokenness, and I certainly have seen people and places that have broken my heart. Literally. This, however, is beyond anything I could have imagined.

A young girl—it has now been confirmed—has been raped. Allegedly, it happened on our school property just about a week ago, on the porch that we teach on every day. The details and exact recounting of the event is still to be established, but we are under the impression that 3 young boys were involved; one holding her down as the others sexually violated her. Kissemahn is in an uproar about it; the girls' parents (or guardians, rather) are pissed. They are angry. Her mother wants to go to the police. As for the boys, one father threatened to kill his son. One of the boys was beaten with rocks by his brother once the information came out. Fingers are being pointed, tension is mounting, and the integrity of the school is being called into question. It's been a few days since the news broke, and things are starting to be sorted out. Still though, it's a long, uphill battle, and I know that the volunteers will do whatever we can to help this situation. We are trying to mindful of everybody—the victim, the boys, the school, Kwame, our director, the families, and the community—and it just gets harder when there doesn't even seem to be a united front within the community to address this issue. It's complicated. That's all I can really say. Some want to the boys to be sent away, some aren't paying much attention to the victim at all, not to mention, that we are discovering one incident that represents something that happens all of the time in Kissemahn, in Ghana, in Africa, and in places all over the world. Yes, even in America too.

I keep wondering, how rampant is this issue? Rumors flew around before, maybe just a few weeks ago, about a couple of girls being raped. Myself and the other volunteers have so many questions, like, what do the kids understand about sex? About doing something like this? They have used the term "sleeping with each other", and we wonder, what does that exactly mean to the kids? Violating someone like that, it just has to be learnt, maybe even experienced.

These are kids raping each other.

The young girl needs help. I pray to God help comes.

I can't even keep my eyes open writing this. It's late. But, my heart also aches tonight. I am struggling to find the right words. I am drained. I am worried. These boys—this community—it needs help. It needs to come together for such a time as this, and it's a damn shame that it hasn't happened yet.

I am going to talk with a young girl I have grown particularly close with tomorrow. She was allegedly raped—held down also—and I want her voice heard too.

Wait.

Her voice.

Does she actually get one?

This isn't America, y'all. The police are corrupt and don't think for a second that a government program exists to help counsel these kids.

I am scared to ask the question but all that keeps running through my mind is WHAT CAN WE REALLY DO?

Dealing with rape on an individual level is a lot different than dealing with rape as a social problem. We have ideas about how to deal with this situation, about getting the victim some help, and about addressing it with our kids as much as we can. As far as sending a larger message though, what the hell do we say?

We can continue to check in after we leave, but our departure date is now about a month away. The good news is that we have a month. That's something. But, we have to focus on doing what is in the best interest of these children, and we have to understand the context we are working in. We are in Africa. And, as with dealing with something this heavy, we can't be the heroes.

Damn, I hate saying that.

I used to believe we could. I used to think that with enough hope, passion, and love, the horrible, horrendous, and awful things of the world can be overcome. And, that's so much a part of me that I think I will always believe that. I know with God anything is possible. But, for this situation, I have tasted a strong dose of reality. Kissemahn is a small community in Ghana that is stuck in a cyclical problem. Poverty. Pain. Abuse. Repeat. Where do you break it? How can you turn it around? All I am saying is that I don't have the answers. We don't have the answers. Our school has a responsibility to these children—to help them, to love them, and to fight for them—but we must remember. This is about the kids. This isn't about us. And we can't be the heroes of a situation that is drenched in complication, undecipherable to those who even know it best. I, as all of the volunteers, will stand by the kids throughout this process. But, we just can't stop this social problem in a matter of weeks.

It just isn't like that.

We can't change a community in 4 weeks.

We can't stop the rape.

We can't stop the abuse.

We can't stop the cycle.

Our school is reaching out, and it's beautiful. But, ultimately, even after months of teaching, I still don't know this community in and out. The other volunteers, with the exception of Renee who started the school back in the fall, have been working in Kissemahn since January. While we have been able to get to know this community, these kids, and these families, we still don't know everything about this community. How could we?

We have made a difference. I know we have, I don't even think twice about that. And that's why we will do the best we can with the challenges ahead for Kissemahn. Maybe we can't stop the pain in a matter of 4 weeks, but we can certainly help in beginning that process. We are headed down a path. I don't know how far we will get. I don't know what it will look like at the end. But, we are going. We love these kids so much. For right now, that's just going to have to be enough.

I have a lot of questions, we all do. Processing this whole thing has been unbelievable. I haven't been sleeping well; my stomach hurts anytime I start thinking about what is happening. When I went to Kissemahn today, for the first time since hearing the news, I knew I had to keep it together. This whole thing might be tearing me up inside, but we are here for the kids. We will do the best we can with this situation, and we will also teach as much English as we can, laugh as much as possible, sing our hearts out, and love them. Hold them. Be with them.

Yes, I came to Ghana looking for confirmation about how I wanted to spend my life. I wasn't sure, a 100% sure anyway, if social work was the right path for me.

I have it. I can feel it when I am around our kids. I sense it when I have been trying to understand the family and home situations of our children. I know it when I am spending time with the kids, learning about them, just listening, and hearing their stories. Maybe it's a story of heavy proportions, or maybe it's just about how they want to eat fried rice for lunch.

Social work, it just feels right.

Please, if you are reading this, pray for everyone involved with this situation. For the young girl, for the boys, for the community, for the school, for Kwame, our director, and for the volunteers. Pray that God will provide, and that just maybe, change can come. Help us to know our place, help us to do what the community needs most. Pray for eyes to be opened; pray for hearts to be healed.

 

My heart is all over the world tonight

Let your face shine on your servant; save me in your unfailing love. Psalm 31: 16

We are all feeling it here in Ghana.

We are all just finding this week a little difficult.

I can't exactly pinpoint why it's been especially hard this week. I can't tell you why I feel the way I do. It's just been hard.

I wouldn't say I am homesick. I mean, I do miss my home. I miss my family, I miss my friends, and I miss America. But, by no means am I ready to go home. I think because I am officially half way through this experience, the "honeymoon" period is over, and I am starting to fully adjust to living here. I want to fully embrace that, but it's hard to be vulnerable and attach myself here when I know it's temporary. I think I might be afraid too, because I know I'm attached, and I'm afraid of how it will feel to leave.

But you know what?

I just can't be afraid. I can't keep how I feel inside, because that just isn't me. I've always worn my heart on my sleeve, and I don't want to miss on being vulnerable because I'm scared. There is just so much more to living in Ghana than that.

Maybe this week has been hard because the emotion is finally catching up with me.

I'm burnt, I'm worried about the Kissemahn kids, I am disappointed that we can't spend time in Togo because of the riots, I want nothing more than a hot cup of coffee, I am frustrated with how my classes have been going, and I wish to see the faces of people I love. I've been more negative this week than I usually ever am. I had to end class in Kissemahn early on Tuesday because I was practically in tears. I was teaching all alone, the kids were fighting, and I felt like it was completely out of control. I felt like a failure, here I was, trying to teach, and in over 2 hours I barely helped the kids learn anything at all. I try so hard to find the positive in everything. Yet, this week I felt only exasperated, anxious, and stressed by the end of the week. It hasn't been a good feeling, and I absolutely dislike negativity. It's an emotion that sucks you in so easily and then proceeds to take you absolutely nowhere. Negativity is not what I, nor anybody else needs right now.

This is Africa. And that's a beautiful thing.

It hit me today after we were leaving the Accra mall and attempting to catch a tro back home to Legon. We looked ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. The mates usually scream out the window where they are headed, but instead today they barely muttered the direction of their tro. That left me, Taylor, and Rachel running around like idiots. It took us well over 30 minutes to catch one home, and we were laughing the whole time. It was what I needed. A moment to ground me. To help me relax. After all, this is Ghana. At the end of the day, I can't have what I want. Nor do I need what I want. I am here to experience this place, this wonderful country.

After this, and talking to my best friend over skype last night I have been feeling better today. No, I'm not leaping for joy. But that's okay. I've realized I don't have to be shouting, laughing loudly, and being obnoxious to be happy. I can be content. I can be working through the challenges, doing the best I can, and still be happy.

I've taken a leap already, just by coming here. I thought about this earlier in the week at Kokrobite Beach. The sand, the people, the sun, it was just a genuinely pretty day. I felt so lucky, and I knew, somehow, that I was going to be challenged the upcoming week. I was.

Now, it's about what I do with that. I can certainly be negative and allow that to seep deeply into this experience. Or, I can learn from it, embrace it, and take every moment of being in Ghana as a gift. Few people get an opportunity like this. I took the jump. And it's okay if I fall. I can get right back up.

Michelle told me,

"That peace is God, and I know it is still inside of you, and I know it is SO hard to feel God sometimes. I know he feels SO far away sometimes and you wonder how you can ever pray or feel close again, but I just want you to know that he is inside of you and he's not going anywhere and he's with you and he's always been with you and every step you take in Ghana he is in your heart."

Thank you for being by my side. Thank you to my friends, my family, to everyone for just loving me. I know I'm going to be okay.