It's a Hard Knock Life

Githurai, Nairobi - full of life, but no place to sit on the curb and sip your coffee latte. Born and raised in Nairobi, my better half writes in his blog that Githurai is an area infamous for prostitution, insecurity and filth. My first impression was along the same grounds. As we walked from the bus stop towards our destination, I observed block after block of dilapidated buildings, foul garbage heaps, and emaciated goats and chickens. Like elsewhere in Nairobi, Githurai was humming with activity, business and people trying to make the best out of their lot in life. And although I was probably the only white girl walking Githurai's streets that day, I was welcomed by curious looks and the smiles of men, women and children alike. 

After 10 minutes of lugging our bags of groceries and other donations through Githurai's congested streets, we arrived at last at our destination - Open Hand Children's Home (OHCH). OHCH is an orphanage founded in 2003 with the aim of acting as a beacon of hope for abandoned children. It is a small compound of about 3, inter-connected, small buildings that houses about 20 children ranging from around 15 down to a a couple weeks old. We spent the majority of our time with 2 adorable infants named Victor and Victoria both abandoned by their parents when they were less than a week old. We were told that one of the children had been found abandoned in a ditch, while another was found tossed away in a plastic bag. INFANTS! How can a woman carry a baby in her womb for 9 months and then feel so little connection and love for that child that she is literally willing to throw that baby away? Not ready for a baby? Sweetie, you should have taken precautions to not have that baby in the first place. Didn't plan on getting pregnant? Do the best you can anyway. As the mother of that child, it is your obligation to do the absolute best you can to give that child the best life possible, be that by raising that child yourself, or by ensuring that that child is in loving, capable adoptive hands.  

I coddled and cooed to baby Victor for a good hour, if not 2. His wide, tear-rimmed, brown eyes stared up at me the entire time. I am hardly in the position to adopt a child, but oh if I could...    

Last days in Kakuma (Part II)

Turkana woman

After the coffee ceremony, my firends/colleagues and I went window shopping in the Somali section of the camp. I was in the tail end of the group as I was trying to call our driver to have him pick us up. As I was trying to find his number, I was taken by complete surprise when an elderly Turkana suddenly appeared at my side. She began pulling at my sleeve, begging me for money with such desperation in her voice that I was paralyzed for a moment or two in shock. Kenya, Ethiopia and Somalia are going through what is considered the worse drought and famine in 60 years (see the following BBC article for more information, http://www.bbc.co.uk/search/news/?q=turkana). Turkana, the indigenous people of northeastern Kenya have been particularly hard hit as they are a nomadic tribe in a remote part of Kenya that tends to, even under normal conditions, be dry and arid. When I looked at the Turkana lady today, I saw tears streaming down her face. I was taken back so much by the experience...White people, referred to as wazungu in Swahili, are generally assumed to be wealthy. I am used to people begging me for money - it is a regular experience when walking in downtown Nairobi. But this lady...God, I can't recall a time where I've seen such desperation in somebody's eyes...In hindsight I think that the moral, human thing to do would have been for me to give her some money. Instead I apologized to her in Swahili and quickened my pace. In my defense, I was scared. The distance between my friends and I was widening, and I was in the middle of a refugee camp with no security guards to come to my rescue. Our security head back in Nairobi had warned us prior to our departure to Kakuma that desperation among the Turkana was/is growing. Large numbers of their population are literally starving to death. When that Turkana lady grabbed hold of my sleeve like she did and I saw the desperation in her eyes, I found myself wondering, "to what lengths would I go if my children were starving? What violence would I consider to get them the food that they need?" I realized that just like me, the Turkana lady would do anything save her family. What woman wouldn't? My mother always says, "messing with me is one thing, but try messing with my family and you've got another thing coming." With such thoughts in my head, my eyes bugged out, I shook the my arm to loosen the lady's grip and sped off in the direction of my friends and safety.

But now, as I am sitting in the comfort and safety of my UN accommodation, I remain wondering, did I do the right thing? Should I have given her the money she so desperately needed, or would have that put my safety in jeopardy? Surely handing out money to one desperate soul would lead to tens, if not hundreds, of other hands reaching out towards me for their share? And if I refused them money when I had just offered to another, would they let me walk away freely? I have my doubts...

Last days in Kakuma (Part I)

Our circuit ride to Kakuma Refugee Camp seems like it just began a couple days ago and yet now we are about to make our way back to Nairobi. Though I miss a certain somebody horribly while I am away from Kenya's capital city, I really do thrive on life in the field. Interaction with refugees and refugees' culture aside, I love how, especially in rural, field locations like Kakuma, it is easy to get into a healthy routine of eating healthy, waking up early, exercising and socializing with friends. Though we are in the middle of the desert, for example, we are living in a UN compound which allows for 24/7 protection by top notch security, decent food options and gym access. 24 hour security allows me to go for solo runs (within the confines of the compound) without having to look over my shoulder every second. The food is not amazing, but it is more than edible and in some instances, quite tasty. The gym in Kakuma is newly built and actually has decent equipment. I have gotten into the habit of running a couple times around the compound in the evenings and then hitting the gym to tone my arms and abs. Many of my colleagues also seem keen to keep healthy so every time I return from jogging, I find at least a handful of my team at the gym running on the tred mills or lifting weights. There's a real sense of camaraderie on this field team...we've really got a good, fun, hard working group of guys and ladies  that I truly enjoy working and spending time with. Last night, thanks to the dj-ing skills of a certain member of our team and the decent speakers IOM has invested in, we were able to have a dance party under the stars till the early hours of the morning - it was no clubbing night in Nairobi, of course, but fantastic fun nonetheless!

Traditional Ethiopian meal - Njera with various stews
and sauces

Today a bunch of us went to Kakuma 1 Refugee Camp (there is also Kakuma 2 and Kakuma 3), to the same Ethiopian restaurant my new friend Sarah and I went to last Sunday. We had the same njera dish with various stews and sauces, but we also got the unique opportunity (unique while working outside of Ethiopia, at least) to enjoy a traditional Ethiopian coffee ceremony. Once we were done with our meals, the wife of the restaurant's owner came over to our house with a hot plate filled with freshly browned coffee beans. She went around to each of us fanning the fragrance of freshly heated coffee beans in our direction. Then she disappeared to this shrine like contraption set up in the middle of the restaurant where she ground the coffee beans by manually while putting the water on to boil. Once the coffee was mixed and ready for pouring, she called us over to the shrine (not sure if it was really a shrine per say...) to be seated and served. We were first given sweetened pop corn and these sweet seeds to eat as an appetizer. My colleague/friend who has lived in Ethiopia in the past explained to me that popcorn is thought to bring out the taste of coffee...who knew! As we nibbled on the popcorn and seeds, our hostess carefully poured thick "buna" (Ethiopian coffee) into tiny cups that reminded me of those that are used in China and Japan. Confession - I hate coffee. Cultural sensitivity comes natural to me though and refusing to try something so important to a given culture would feel so much more awkward than drinking something my taste buds aren't a fan of! And so I "oooh and ahhhh"-ed over the coffee, drank every last drop of my portion and thanked my hostess till she was red in the face. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Side tangent... 

Kenyan Nyama Choma

I do the same thing when it comes to eating Kenyan meat. Kenyans like to cook their meat till it's so tough that you have to chew each piece for minutes on end just to get it into a somewhat swallow-able form. Eating "nyama choma" (grilled Kenyan-style meat) is so much a part of the culture here. I fear that for me to turn my nose up at the cuisine I might inadvertently insult them, especially since meat is pricey and it is considered rude in Kenya to refuse what is offered to you (it has been explained to me that if you refuse something that is offered to you, it's like turning your nose up at your host...as in, you will risk being seen as ungrateful and rude...complete opposite of Japanese culture). So....just as I did today with the Ethiopian coffee, I generally find my normally vegetarian self agreeing to nyama choma nights without really wanting to eat the stuff in the first place. <sigh> If only the Kenyans didn't make their meat so overly cooked and left some of the natural moisture and tenderness my tendency towards cultural sensitivity might not clash so much with my culinary tastes!   

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

South Africa

My best friend. She and I have been tight like THIS!!!! <crossing fingers> since undergrad. We're literally from opposite sides of the world with her being from an all-black, Xhosa village in South Africa and me from a snow white village in Upstate NY! Still we hit it off right from the start, especially as roommates our sophomore year. These days, she's in the States with her white, American husband  I'm in I am almost on my 2nd year living in the  "mother land" with my black African (well...more chocolate than black, but whatever) bf. It's like we've literally switched places! I have seen her since our mutual friend's wedding in 2007 and yet I feel as close to her as if we had spent every day of the last year together. Mom used to tell me that one of the hardest parts about coming an adult is not just the responsibility, but also that genuinely good, devoted friends become harder to find. I've been lucky - Pumz has been there for me thick and thin regardless of the time and distance that passes between us. Imagine, we still write to each other via snail mail...and no 2pagers either. I do believe the average letter that gets sent is between 8 and 10 pages long! Sure, we e-mail and G-Chat too, but letters to and from Pumz are definitely my fav. 

This Christmas Pumz is flying down to South Africa to be with her family. HOPEFULLY, her husband will be able to join as well. My guy and I are flying down to meet them (our first int'l trip together <grin>)- it will be the first time in almost half a decade that I'll get to see Pumz in person. I am, to say the least, beyond excited to see her again. Meanwhile, it'll be interesting to be in a country that has such a turbulent past in terms of race relations, especially as I am in a "mixed" relationship. How will people treat us, I wonder? A close friend of mine who has spent many months living in South Africa told me that she was often yelled at by white South Africans when she walked amongst blacks. In Kenya you don't see such hatred towards interracial mixing...or at least I haven't experienced it yet. Here, it is not so uncommon to see mixed couples holding hands and whatnot. I actually even forget at times that my bf is a different color than me unless somebody back home brings it up or one of my mzungu friends gets carried away w/ their ever curious questions. I've heard that in South Africa one has quite a different experience as many of its people  still seem to cling to the country's segregated past. Am not one to judge a country based on another's opinion though - I'll go and make my own opinions, thank you very much. So till December let me hold back my opinions and rather focus my thoughts on the excitement of meeting my best, "best friend." :) 

Riding sky-high

Girl I met in Harar, Ethiopia

Today was one of those days in the field that left me exhausted, but riding sky-high with satisfaction. With respect for our refugees' privacy and security, I can't share the details of my interviews. I can say (write rather :p) that today's applicants were genuinely GOOD, hard-working people who, had they been fortunate enough to have been born elsewhere in the world they would have been definitely been successful leaders of their communities, doctors, politicians, professors, you name it. But because of where they were born, the ethnicity they had been assigned at birth or the color of their skin, they were persecuted against, denied basic human rights, threatened with death and chased out of their countries. And this by groups of individuals who are just as human as you, me and the refugees I interview, but who by mere chance were born into a class, color or ethnicity that is deemed superior to the oppressed. 

At the end of one of my interviews today, the father on of my case broke into tears of gratitude. Through our interpreter he gave me a mini-tribute that I will not soon forget. "Thank you so much for today, madam. I was so nervous before the interview because I was afraid that somehow the interview would go wrong. But you were so patient with me, you were so kind. My past is such a hard thing for me to remember, let alone talk about. It breaks my heart to think that my infant son might grow up to live the hard life I have. Madam, you may not be the one to decide whether we get to go to America or not, but by listening to me, recording my story and by just being here, you are giving us a 2nd chance at life. I am forever grateful to you for that. Thank you, Madam, thank you. Today I felt closer to Hope than I ever have and for that I pray to God that He bless you in everything that you do." It's refugees like him who inspire me and make me believe that what I am doing here is worth while. I have a notebook that I carry around with me where ever I am conducting interviews. In the notebook, I have a list of case numbers of refugees that I "follow." Though a well-written and well-put together case file really does help a refugee's chance at getting approved by USCIS, I have no influence over his/her chances at acceptance beyond that. Regardless, I like to keep my list of "refugees-to-follow" just to see if they get accepted and where they end up. I can't tell you how amazing a feeling it is to interview a particularly heart breaking case and then find out down the line that that case has been approved!

A Tribute to a Dear Friend

"M" and I with M's pet rabbit

The last 48 hours have been exhausting. I found out yesterday that one of my dearest friends is gravely ill. I'll just refer to her as "M" for confidentiality reasons...It is considered rare to survive multiple relapses of the same cancer, it is virtually unheard of to survive 3 different cancers all together. When I first met my friend back in 2008 she had already survived 2 different types of lymphoma. Like me, she was to start her studies at the Monterey Institute for International Studies (graduate school of Middlebury College) in August 2007. Right before she was to begin however, she was diagnosed for the 2nd time with lymphoma. She ended up spending most of the next year undergoing treatment including chemo, radiation and a bone marrow transplant. Her doctors thought she was an amazing success story then having survived 2 cancers with such gusto and good spirit.

By the time she entered the Monterey Institute for International Studies for the first time in August 2008, she was full of excitement and enthusiasm. She was such an inspiration with her eagerness to learn and the fact that she never seemed to get discouraged. She had survived cancer not once, but TWICE and now she was going to learn what she'd been wanting to study for ages - International Migration Policy. I remember her telling me about her dream to work with and assist human trafficking victims...there was such a sparkle in her eye when she talked about all the things she would now accomplish in life, now that she was finally healthy!

M and I were instant friends. As a Japanese-American, I felt like she "understood" me in a way my non-Japan-influenced friends couldn't possibly. I remember talking for hours with her about our studies, about boys, Japan, love, life, happiness, exercise, our professors, you name it. We also had a dear, mutual friend whom I shall refer to "L" with whom we often spent time with. The three of us adored each other. L and I would have done anything for M just to see that beautiful smile of hers.

Then one day, towards the end of M's 1st semester, she and I attended a spinning class together at the local gym. I was all hyped up because I was convinced that M would love the class. The instructor was a wild one - she'd scream at the class to make them work as hard possible, her music was jammin' and loud...it was going to be an awesome class and M was going to love it! M wasn't able to get through the class though because she kept getting cramps in her feet. She'd get off her bike, sit on the floor, massage her feet with this confused look on her face, get back on her bike and try again. Then a couple minutes of peddling later, she'd have to get off her bike because her arches were cramping up again. I remember being concerned for her, but wasn't able to comprehend at the time what might be the reasons for her achy feet.

I think it was something like a week or so later that M began having her headaches. The headaches were so bad that they would leave her vomiting and retching into the toilet basin for hours each day. I remember that she was suppose to give this big presentation in Japanese one day. The Monterey Institute for International Studies is world-famous for its language learning/translation/interpretation classes. Every fall a conference is held where students present their research projects in a language other than English. What they say is then simultaneously interpreted into multiple languages. M was to present in Japanese on human trafficking and I was to be the MC, also speaking in Japanese. About an hour or 2 before the conference was to begin, I received a call from M on my cell phone. She was barely able to make out her message because she was vomiting so bad, but I understood that she would not be able to make her presentation. A classmate of ours presented his research during her time allotment so the conference wasn't disrupted at all, but I remember hardly being able to concentrate as I did my MC-ing. Thankfully Japanese comes naturally enough to me that I don't have to put too much thought into giving such presentations. If only the audience knew though that my mind was no where close to being in that auditorium, but rather with M...

After the presentation, I went to M's house immediately. By that time I realized that what she was feeling was not normal and that she urgently needed to see a qualified physician. She was stubborn though and for good reason. She didn't want to be sick again. She had already had her fair share of hardship; this was her time to be HEALTHY. It was almost as if she were internally demanding that her immune system pick up the slack and take control again! I refused to let M sleep alone that night. I helped her to my car, gave her a basin and drove the 5 minutes it took to get to my apartment. Though I was doing my best to drive carefully, I think she vomited at least 5 times during that ride. I had this grand plan that when she came over to my house, I would fix her an amazing dinner that would make her feel like a million bucks! I was going to make her hot soup and tea and we would chat happily until we fell over in happy delirium. That wasn't to be the case though that night. M staggered to my bed, sat seiza like the Japanese lady she is, laid her head down on 2 pillows laid on top of each other and rocked back and forth, back and forth for what must have been hours. She was in so much pain. She said her head felt like it was going to explode; the vomiting was just as bad. I begged her to return to Japan early to see her doctors. She was so resistant to the idea though as we only had about 3 weeks left till the end of the semester. "I'll be fine, I'll be fine," she said more to herself than to me.

A week later, M was on a plane to Tokyo where she was diagnosed with CNS, lymphoma of the brain. I nearly collapsed in anguish when I heard that news... I was terrified that I was about to loose one of my dearest friends.

M may be petite, but her inner strength to halt Death in his tracks proved victorious yet again. She survived. The treatment she had to undergo emancipated her already small frame, but she came out it without a lick of cancer in her. The doctors, both in Japan and at Stanford, were astounded - she was officially their miracle story. A doctor at Stanford even remarked, "I don't know how you are sitting here, in front of me today."

M was thereafter able to restart her studies in Monterey and graduated soon thereafter. She was healthy and was ready to conquer the world!

That period wasn't all happiness and congratulatory embraces though. The docs at Stanford warned her that they didn't see her surviving a CNS relapse. With that grim thought in mind, M had to undergo an extra long session of chemo. She made it through though and in the end, the docs at Stanford were unable to trace any cancerous cells in her system. That was 2 years ago.

Yesterday L and I received an e-mail from M. According to the message, the doctors in Japan have confirmed that she has relapsed and again has CNS. She wrote that she requires chemo again, but her body is too weak to undergo such harsh treatment. Her chemo must be followed by brain radiation and a bone marrow transplant....Just reading that e-mail made me sick to my stomach with dread. ...But imagine, our dear M wrote at the end of her e-mail, "don't worry. I'll get through it!" God, reading that really made me smile. M is so focused on the happiness of her friends and family, that the first thought in her mind is not to beg for encouragement and support, but to ensure them that all will be OK.

Me, "M" and "L" - 2008

I am not the church-going type, haven't been since I was child...but I do believe in God with all my being and I do believe that sometimes He puts a bit of Himself in those he's really enjoyed creating. In M, God has sprinkled in an angel. When I think about her inner strength, her encouraging words and her will to survive, I am left in awe. And when I think about how she has fallen ill yet again, ...I am overwhelmed with sadness because she has to undergo so much pain and suffering again, but when my tears have dried, I smile because honestly, I know that she will survive again. 

Adventures in Kakuma Refugee Camp

"Women's rights are human rights" -
DAMMMN STRAIGHT!

Just got back from an adventure-packed stroll through Kakuma I Refugee Camp with my new friend/colleague, Sarah. Like seemingly all refugee camps, Kakuma 1 is divided according to nationality and then subdivided according to ethnicity. There is the “Ethiopian Section” of Kakuma 1 Refugee Camp, for instance, and within that section there is the “Oromo sub-section,” among others. In Africa, so many of our refugees have fled persecution based on their ethnicity. It is common to hear refugees speak of having been attacked, robbed, threatened, raped, and/or had family members maimed or murdered simply because of their ethnic identity.What is even more surprising to the new comer however, is that often times, fleeing to a supposedly "safe" country of asylum like Kenya is not the end of their experiences of persecution. I've heard countless complaints from refugees living in camps like Dadaab and Kakuma that refugees continue to be attacked based on their ethnicity (as well as their religion, their outward appearance, their gender, their familial background, etc). Somalis from minority tribes like the Midgan, for instance, often have a horrible time in the camps because the Somali majority tribes give them such a rough time. Of course there is security in the camp, but with camps like Dadaab overflowing with  five  times  plus their population capacity, available security is spread thin, if non-existent, to say the least. 

Adorable Ethiopian refugee who agreed free-of-charge
 to be  the start of my photo. Thanks, buddy!
Am thinking I'll find a  way to get a hard copy
 to him via the next team that visits Kakuma. :)

Needless to say, because of the above mentioned security issues in their country of asylum, camp refugees usually divide themselves up according to tribe/ethnicity, what have you. The UN assists with this, but the refugees divide themselves voluntarily as well.When refugees arrive in their country of asylum, the last thing they want to do is live among people from the ethnic group that persecuted against them back home. Fortunately many refugees whom I have spoken with are able to recognize that all members of a given ethnic group are not automatically evil and out-to-get-them.Regardless, as is common anywhere, refugees often feel most comfortable when they are around people of “their own kind,” whether that be in terms of ethnicity, religion, nationality or language.

Njera - Ethiopian staple

Anyway, I digress…our trip to Kakuma I was lovely though a bit overwhelming in my opinion. We had lunch at a Ethiopian restaurant called Franco’s. Franco is an Ethiopian refugee who prepares the best Ethiopian food I've ever tried. Our meal today included the staple in any Ethiopian meal, a slightly sour-tasting bread called njera. I’ve spoken to numerous Ethiopians in the past who swear that njera is the best food out there and that it is the first thing they ever miss from their home country. Personally I am not the biggest fan of njera, but it feels odd to enjoy Ethiopian food without it, so in my tummy it went. :p Njera is usually eaten with stews, curries, greens and beans. They also like to eat it with a sauce called shiro. Our njera today came with a potato curry, greens and capage (see photo). Franco also offered us a meat stew, but Sarah and I aren't the biggest fans of red meat so we opted out. 

Turkana Woman and I - July 2011

After our meal, we headed out to the streets and wandered around for a good hour and a half poking our heads into shops, shaking hands with the refugees and doing a bit of spontaneous shopping. I've had my mind set on getting a picture with a Turkana woman all week and finally got my chance today. She had been begging me for money, so I made her a deal - one picture for some pocket change. She agreed and there I had my picture! I purposely had the photo taken with her before handing over the money because when I handed over the two ten shilling coins I had in my pocket she complained that it was too little. I smiled at her, apologized in Swahili and continued on down the road. We had a bunch of other Turkana as us for money, but the refugees themselves were mostly respectful. They just smiled at us, wanted to shake our hands and practice their English. I suggested a photo to a few of them, but most were too shy so I decided on leaving my camera in my bag as to not offend anybody. The pics I was able to take are included in this blog. 

Refugee store on Obama Street

The highlight of our Camp stroll was by far our interaction with one, very lively...and most likely, slightly crazy, Turkana man. He came up to us like the other Turkana, wanting to shake our hands, talk to us and ask for money. As the reader may well be aware, there is a wide-spread food shortage that is overwhelming northern Kenya, Somalia and Ethiopia right now. Camp refugees are provided with UN food assistance, but the natives of north-eastern Kenya, the Turkana, are not able to enjoy such assistance as they are not refugees. It only made sense therefore that during our stroll in the camps, it was the Turkana, not the refugees, who were so keen on asking us for assistance. Not wanting to be overwhelmed by a crowd of Turkana begging for money, however, we politely refused to give money (with the exception of the Turkana lady I took a pic with). We did make sure to treat the Turkana, and refugees, with due respect however, by being sure to shake their hands, smile and talk with them for a couple minutes before moving on. ANYWAY, back to the particular, and rather peculiar Turkana gentleman we met...he approached us like all the other Turkana with a look of excitement, curiosity and need to shake our hands. He then went on to give us a good minute-or-two monologue in what sounded like a mixture of Turkana, English and Swahili. We were able to make out about 10 words of what he was saying because he was dragging out each word and had such a thick accent. He pronounced the swahili word "kidogo" ("small" or "some" in English) like "kiduuugo," for instance. And then he had this high pitched way of speaking that broke down any ability I had to keep a straight face. We made out the word children and pesa ("money" in English) and then he kept repeating the phrase "Education is the KEEEEEEYYYY to LIIIIIIIIIIFE."  When he pulled out that one I couldn't help but double over in laughter...Thankfully my laughter was matched by amusement in his eyes and laughter from refugee and Turkana onlookers. Obviously he was trying to get us to give him money so that he could send his kids to school. I would have loved to have been able to give him money. A crowd of equally needy onlookers had quickly surrounded us however and I feared we would be mobbed by outstretched hands should I reach in my bag for my wallet. Plus, what if we had given money to the Turkana man, but refused money to the others? We could have easily been hurt, especially as two unaccompanied women in a camp in which we were strangers. 

"Abstain from sex till marriage" - um, yeah,
don't agree with that one...

About 3 hours after entering the camp, Sarah and I departed for the UN compound drenched in sweat from the African sun, but having satisfied our curiosity (at least for today) about what the camps were like. Outside the camp are numerous signs advertising everything from the Kenyan Red Cross to the importance of abstaining from sex before marriage. We had our fun posing in front of the signs as you can see. :)