bitter goodbyes, sweet hellos

I have some exciting news to share--news that makes me anxious with anticipation of new dreams and adventures while at the same time brings me steps closer to the dreaded day of my departure from Sweet Salone. 

I have been given the opportunity to go to Cambodia to work with the WHI anti-trafficking program.  World Hope runs an aftercare home for girls rescued from sex trafficking and prostitution.  I have been asked to do work very similar to what I have been doing here, writing stories of survivors, the work of WHI and to assist with other communications needs.  This is an incredible opportunity and encouragement for me in the work I've been doing.

I have always wanted to see this part of the world and since my passion and work in anti-trafficking, I have  desired to go to Cambodia and directly support the work being done to fight this atrocious bondage so many are forced to live in.

So, I jumped at the opportunity - with only one reservation.  We have decided my time will be most fruitful if I have adequate time to get aquanted and adjusted.  I've been asked to go at the begining of April so I will have at least two months before I need to be back in DC for my dear Betsy and Isaiah's wedding at the beginning of June.  This leaves me only one month more in SL.

I am truly experiencing the definition of mixed feelings.  Part of my heart is ecstatic at the thought of all I will see and do and live and learn in Cambodia - while instantaneously my heart sinks at the thought of having only five short, short weeks left in this country I have grown to love.


I also know this will be a drastic transition.  I will certainly not have time to adequately process all of SL before jumping into Cambodia.  The cultural transition as well as the work will be more than I could ever anticipate.



So I ask for your prayers.  Prayers for peace and not anxiety.  Prayers for time to slow down and not speed up in frenzy.  Prayers for divine understanding and transition.

Tanki, tanki, tanki!  I am so thankful for all the love and support I feel everyday.  I truly feel your prayers and rely on them. 


Here's a little overview of prayer request:
-Prayer for peaceful closure for my time left in SL, that I would be able to accomplish all my work and spend adequate time with those I have created relationships with
-Prayer for a smooth transition and the ability to process one experience while jumping into the next
-Prayer for additional funding for Cambodia

a rhythm of life

Pound, pound, pound, pound, pound…the rhythm continues throughout the day. At times I notice it, but often I don’t. Pound, pound, pound, pound, pound. Even when I hear it, do I really know what it means?  The sweat and effort that goes into every pound. The backbreaking pain of every pound. The never-ending rhythm, hour after hour, day after day--the never-ending pile of stone she is pounding into tiny fragments of gravel. Even when I hear it, do I really know what it means? No. It is but another sound of life. Another desperate attempt to make a little money. At least enough to feed mouths. Pound, pound, pound, pound, pound.

the sounds of sadness

As the coffin dropped into the ground, a slow deep wail filled the silent air as if a swirling wind had brought it up from the grave.  A moan that could be felt stirring deep down in my soul.  The sound of mourning.  I look out across the graveyard built on the slope of Freetown’s hillside in Wilberforce, named for the man who fought to bring Africa back her people, freed, as the mass of people, all dressed in their finest white, surrounding the hole that was now being filled in with earth begin to disperse, making their way down between the grave sites.  The reality of life and death in this country is as fluid as the people walking among the headstones.  In a country where the life expectancy is only 41 years (risen from the lowest in the world in the last three short years) the leading causes of death are from easily preventable and treatable conditions, Anthony Jr. didn’t even make it to the cut off point.  At 38 years he left this world with the gift of two beautiful young boys (2 years and 5 months) and a beautiful young wife (only 21 years) who now must battle the hardships of living in one of the poorest countries in the world, alone. 

Anthony Jr. was one of our night guards.  He would stay awake all night to ensure I got to sleep without worry, without fear.  He was quiet and soft-spoken, with a youthful face and timid smile.  He would bundle up each night as if snow was in the forecast and I would greet him each morning in my athletic gear and tank top to go out for a run, he in his zipped jacket, stocking cap, gardening gloves and socks pulled up over the bottom of his trousers.  This is the image I will hold in my heart of Jr. and a smile will always spread across my lips.
 

Janet and I trekked across a deep crevasse littered with makeshift homes of corrugated iron dodging the children running and playing football or fetching water.  We slipped and slid down one side and up the other to greet Jr.’s wife and mother only a few days after he passed.  Osha, osha.  The krio word for I am sorry.  What else is there to say?  We sit for a while, in silence.  I smile at little Anthony, Jr’s namesake, and make a face that makes him laugh.  Janet discusses the best way we can support them and then we make the trek back - leaving a woman with sorrow and fear engraved deep into her eyes as she anticipates a life she does not know how to live.  With a baby at her breast and a child on her hip, her deeply furrowed brow makes her look years beyond her age.  Her mother-in-law offering what little comfort she can amidst her own grieving until she must go back to her village to attend to her other children. 

At only 38, Jr. complained of intense stomach pain one day while at our compound and Janet took him to the hospital.  Emergency surgery for a ruptured intestine was determined his need. 

Yet while emergency surgery translates to hope in our language – the connotation reflects a fearful unknown in this one.  Emergency surgery itself could easily kill him.  Recovery in an inadequately cleaned facility could kill him as well. The risk of surgery practically equals the risk without.

No one is sure why he died.  No autopsy will be done, no information from the doctor disclosed.  But that is the way most pass here.  No one knows for certain the cause. 

But while death is far too frequent, it doesn’t make the mourning easier to bear, it doesn’t change the hardship for those left behind. 

The service was beautiful.  His image preserved in pure, loving memories.  His creator praised in pure, loving choruses.  The words said, the hymns sung, carried him to the site on the hillside—enshroud in a white cloud of those who loved him—to where he will lay, looking out over his city, his family, forever.