Pictures of Kibera

Nairobi is the capital of Kenya and the urban center of East Africa. The busy roundabouts, shimmering skyscrapers, and thousands of jay-walking pedestrians offer both an intimidating and rushing experience. For many hours each day, the city is locked up in “jam.” The concept of lanes seems to evaporate and is consumed by a highway free-for-all. Travelers are in a metal and fiberglass jungle where only the aggressive survive.

After busting out of the city center and whipping around the roundabout near the large hospital, the traveler finds himself on a two-lane road leading to the suburbs out of town. Massive shopping centers – China Center, Nakumatt, Adams Arcarde, and The Junction –   are concentrated on this long strip of road. Within a stone’s throw of the spotless food court at Prestige Plaza lies one of the most unsanitary living conditions on the planet. Kibera – said to be Sub-Saharan Africa’s largest informal settlement – hides politely behind the colossal walls and mopped isles of that which represents a “developed” Kenya.

At the Steers burger chain just outside of the slum, Kenyan parents are seen buying their children ice cream cones. Just a short walk away, parents struggle to feed their children. Worse, children struggle to feed themselves. The difference between “developed” and “developing” is stark. Those witnessing the transition are often surprised and speechless. The speed at which the neighborhood goes “bad” is like a punch in the gut. The ice cream cone we just licked dry is an unthinkable luxury for the thousands who dwell nearby.

Kibera is a 1.5 square mile area that tightly sleeps one million people. Perhaps rivaling an avalanche, the Kibera slum has the power to consume those who visit. Roads are too narrow for many vehicles and paths can suddenly end, dip, narrow, or wind endlessly. Before you know it, you are at the mercy of an iron sheet maze that can intimidate even the well travelled. Visitors better not venture in without someone who knows their way around. Interestingly enough, Kibera is below the threshold of neighborhoods that deter visitors and has instead developed into a poverty icon. After being featured in award-winning main-stream movies (The Constant Gardener) and independent films (Kibera Kid), Kibera has become a “must see” stop when visiting Nairobi. The controversial practice of poverty tours, deemed “poorism” by its detractors and “community tourism” by its supporters, is alive and well in Kibera. While walking around downtown Nairobi, I realized that I saw more wazungu (white people) in Kibera than in the city center.

Cameras ready, well-meaning tourists snap away at smiling children who are so used to having their picture taken, they automatically assume the thumbs up position that they think tourists love. Accustomed to visitors with digital cameras, most demand to see the picture you just snapped and will ask for another if they think they look funny. Some love the attention. Tour companies don’t say Kibera is “the world’s friendliest slum” for no reason. The people smile, wave, and welcome you to their shops. Children are always shouting when they spot a mzungu. “How are you!? How are you!?” Most wazungu continue saying, “I’m fine” until they are out of the children’s view. Others feel like a spectacle; they believe the wazungu will just show all of their friends back at home how they helped the poor black people. A resident of Kibera who works at a car wash is quoted in one of the country’s leading newspapers as saying, “They see us like puppets, they want to come and take pictures, have a little walk, tell their friends they’ve been to the worst slum in Africa.” Despite the complaints, numerous projects that benefit the community exist because of the people who take those pictures and share the stories.

Those who take the pictures are dealt a difficult hand as far as how to portray Kibera to those at home to whom we show the pictures. Is it a place of misery, sorrow, and helplessness? Or is it a place of kindness, community, and fellowship? Is it a place where danger reigns? Where girls fear rape? Where alcohol and drugs are the tools of survival? Or is it a testament to the resilience of people who may have little material possessions, but big dreams and even greater faith? Is it a notch in our belt that we “survived” our visit to Kibera? Is it just another mission opportunity? Is it a storybook version of what it means to be poor? Or is it just more poor Africans who need our help? Is it a place where you walk away a changed person, not knowing whether to appreciate or loathe what possessions you have? Or is it just another place on the planet? Is it an excuse to protest or a reason to fundraise? Is a just a good experience; a stop on the trip?

For others, the questions have a personal twist. Is it the boy who prayed the Lord’s prayer, and concentrated extra hard on Give us this day our daily bread? Is it the place you were able to share in the Lord’s Supper with people suffering from HIV/AIDS, and even though you knew you couldn’t relate, you knew you were connected through the blood of Christ. Is it a little girl who held your hand? Is it the family that takes in orphaned children even though they have barely enough resources to provide for their own?

When you show the pictures of the sewage flowing through the road and the children walking barefoot, is it a story of hope or a story of desperation? When you show pictures of abandoned children in orphanages, do you talk about adoption, or do you talk about disease? When you show pictures of those the world labels “impoverished,” do you talk about their hardship or their happiness? A picture is worth a thousand words, but in order to determine what those words are, the photographer must answer some of these questions.

To others, Kibera means something more academic or political. Kibera is the result of African urbanization. The pull of urban opportunities and the push of rural poverty leads to chronic housing shortages. The shack settlements offers a place relatively free from government control and cheap living accommodation, many paying KES 500 – 1000 ($6.50 – $13.25 USD) for monthly rent.
Those who migrate into the urban area also migrate daily into the city. A sea of people gets ready for work and walks to their nearest matatu boarding location. The masses who haven’t found jobs seek out an existence in the informal economy, operating small shops or performing daily labor. Still, a middle class exists in Kibera who decide to stay even after they find some success. Thousands of “experts” devote their time to slum upgrading strategies and eradication plans. In September of 2009, the government began relocating small numbers of residents to housing complexes which loom large over the Southern border of the slum. The reaction to these removal plans is mixed.

But – you may ask - Does it really matter what those who take the pictures say? To some extent, yes. The interpretations and feelings of visitors ripple across the world to the  homes and communities of the picture-takers. A child wearing tattered clothes and a smile is a nameless star in stories of people in far-off lands. They appear at fundraiser slideshows, in photo albums, and within frames on the wall. They accompany stories – those of “flying toilets,” garbage-lined streets, or community schools bursting with children. Running a google search of Kibera would lead to a wealth of blogs from both organizations and individuals, offering their interpretation or experience in Kibera.

The interpretation that derives from experience and memory shapes the attitude and response of those who desire to help. Is Kibera a primitive form of existence that Westerners are all too ready to attribute to Africa? Is it a community of people who deserve our pity and can only escape with the help of our illuminating presence? Is it a problem that only requires more money and resources thrown in its direction? Is it a blank slate waiting for the writing of those who want to help? Is it a place where the people are to be helped, not listened too? Or is it so much more?

Perhaps the weakness in analysis is the desire to generalize. Kibera is many things. The reality of Kibera transcends the interpretation of outsiders. Regardless of what I think or say, what the movies show, or the consensus in the countless interpretation of pictures, life goes on for the people of Kibera. I often ponder whether or not we have it all wrong. When I talk to my friends in Kibera and count down the days until I get to return to visit so many people I have grown to love, it seems like it is just another place on earth with people of all kinds of personalities, talents, and dreams. People I admire, miss, and love.

An East African travel guide warns “…‘Nairobbery”, as it is often called by residents, is commonly regarded as the most dangerous city in Africa…[and] the majority of problems happen in the slums.” The place has its share of con-artists, violent criminals, rapists, drug addicts, and gang leaders. Tragically, the area has before fallen into ethnic violence. Children tell of their experience being tear-gassed by police. Disease is prevalent; sanitation is not. Death is an everyday reality. You better not go out at night. It smells bad and it is loud. Walking in Kibera is no walk in the park. However, the pictures of endless shacks, garbage, and sewage rarely display the beauty I find in Kibera. Perhaps this explains why people do not understand my desire, and the desire of so many others, to return.

Kibera is a confusing place that invokes weird emotions. Perhaps the phrase “It’s complicated” would work best. Visitors do not know whether to feel confused, angry, inspired, heart-broken, appreciative, energized, or a combination of them all. HIV/AIDS is prevalent and the living affected and infected are everywhere – orphans, widows, and families who have lost loved ones.

I stopped taking pictures, because I still do not know what to say or how to answer the questions.

(Updated Version. Originally posted on the CSCM website, June 1, 2010)

A Time for Everything

Two years ago, I partnered with Reverend Dennis and Deaconess Lorna Meeker to form Compassionate Social Care Ministries (CSCM) as a nonprofit corporation with a mission of providing comprehensive care to orphaned and vulnerable children in Kenya. In 2010, over $110,000 was raised. Through CSCM, hundreds of children are given the opportunity to attend quality schools, others are fed through feeding programs,  and the CSCM Rescue Center continues to provide care and shelter to children who have no where else to live. God has truly blessed this ministry and the children that CSCM serves. 

On June 29, 2011, I informed the Meekers and the Board of Directors of my resignation from CSCM. I have thoughtfully and prayerfully considered this decision for quite some time. Though it deeply saddens me to leave the organization, I know in my heart I have made the right decision. I have been working with the Meekers for the past month, planning a transition to another team of individuals in the United States to coordinate the affairs of the organization. With careful planning, this transition will not adversely affect the children under CSCM’s care.

For the past two years, I have dedicated my life to building a nonprofit organization to care for orphans in Kenya. When I brought Jonathan and Shelly to Reverend Dennis and Deaconess Lorna in December 2008, they did not hesitate for even a second to care for them. Despite their limited resources, Dennis and Lorna will always find a way to help a child in need, even if it means sacrificing their own savings. Even though there were many times we disagreed, I have always admired their love for their children. I am thankful for the opportunity to have partnered with them both.

The past two years have not been easy. I have made many mistakes, but because of them, I have learned so much and realize that I have much to learn. At nineteen years old, I do not think many people expected me to succeed at running a nonprofit organization. Perhaps they were right; I had no idea the workload that was heading my way, the situations I would encounter, and the adversity I would have to overcome. I was certainly not perfect, but I worked my tail off and did my best. I would not exchange my experience with CSCM for anything. 

I have learned about hope and hopelessness, love and hate, comfort and pain, smiles and tears. Our children unknowingly radically changed my life while I intentionally tried to influence theirs. They are my inspiration. I went to Kenya after high school searching for an experience before starting college; I left Kenya with a purpose. I did not meet Pastor Meeker in Beecher, Illinois four months before going to Kenya on accident. I did not walk into a mud hut orphanage in the middle of the Kibera slum on December 1, 2008 and find two desperate children on accident. I am confident that every part of my journey, from the picture-perfect campus of Furman University, to the slums of Nairobi, from the foreclosed house in Illinois, to the Rescue Center in Kisumu, have been part of a larger plan for my life, even if it has not been fully revealed to me.

I am eternally grateful for my friends and family that have not only lent their ears for my frustration and their time for a cause I care so deeply about, but also sacrificed their hard earned money to provide for the children that I love. I appreciate your willingness to listen to my never ending supply of plans, no matter how insane. Your generosity has not gone unnoticed.

As I left Kenya in December 2010, all of the children living at the CSCM Rescue Center gathered together in the living room to say goodbye. They had been trying to convince me for the past several days to stay. I told them that if it was up to me, I would stay and be their “uncle” forever. But I had to go to school. They asked when I was coming back; I told them I didn’t know, but it would probably be a long time. I was supposed to lead the devotion, but I was so emotional I knew it would not go very well.

I asked one of the older girls to pray. When she finished, I opened up to Ecclesiastes 3 and began reading... "There is an appointed time for everything.  And there is a time for every event under heaven ~ A time to give birth, and a time to die; A time to plant, and a time to uproot what is planted. A time to kill, and a time to heal; A time to tear down, and a time to build up.” I could no longer read. I did my best to get out the rest of the chapter, but I was so choked up I do not think anyone understood what I was saying.

At the end, I added “A time to come, and I time to go... It is now my time to go.” 

For two years, I told the world where to shove it. I danced to the beat of my own drum; I dropped out of college for a while; I gave everything I had away; I suffered with the children I cared so deeply about. I dedicated all of my thoughts and every second of my day to my kids. Despite my best efforts to ignore Him, God has made it increasingly clear that it is time to go.

What are Faith-Based Organizations doing to support orphans?

After extended families, Faith-Based Organizations (FBOs) are one of the only means by which external support is reaching orphans and other vulnerable children (Foster, 2005).

How are Faith-Based Organizations supporting orphaned children in Sub-Saharan Africa? The graph from this powerpoint presentation provides an interesting insight.

Foster, G., "Religion and Responses to Orphans in Africa." A Generation at Risk: The Global Impact of HIV/AIDS on Orphans and Vulnerable Children. New York: Cambridge UP, 2005. 159-180.

Visualizing a Response

During my paper writing procrastination, I put a few more diagrams together.

The first diagram illustrates what research has consistently concluded on orphan care in Sub-Saharan Africa. 90% of orphans are being cared for by members of their extended family. The remaining 10% (highlighted in red) find themselves in orphanages, child-headed households, domestic servitude, or a variety of other unfortunate situations.

Diagram 1.

The second diagram illustrates the effects of building orphanages as a primary response to orphan care in Sub-Saharan Africa. This diagram is an oversimplification, but it illustrates an important point. The purpose is to provide a visual example.

Orphanages absorb children far beyond their intended target. The child surrounded with the red box (the 1 out of every 10 that has no competent extended family members) is often the segment of the population orphanages claim to be targeting. However, a significant number of children living in orphanages are far outside of this target population (as indicated by the larger red box). For example, the blue children are those with one or both parents. There is research that suggests that as many as 4 out of 5 children living in orphanages have a living parent. Building orphanages removes children from families (Causality is discussed in separate posts).

Diagram 2 also illustrates that orphans who have adequate extended family members to care for them also end up in orphanages. This often happens to provide the child with an educational opportunity.   The black dot indicates the target child for orphanages. The grey arrows demonstrate that orphanages draw children away from families outside of the orphanage's intended target.

Diagram 2

The third diagram illustrates the opposite approach. Orphans are supported by strategies that strengthen the families who care for them. The grey arrow demonstrates that as these support strategies are more and more successful, they will absorb additional children into families. This ultimately decreases the number of children who "need" to be institutionalized.

Diagram 3

Diagrams Anyone?

Diagrams adapted by J. Fraher from Foster, G. "The Capacity of the Extended Family Safety Net for Orphans in Africa." Psychology, Health, & Medicine 5.1 (2000): 55-62. 

I adapted these diagrams to illustrate two approaches to orphan care taking into consideration the extended-family framework. My intention was to illustrate two different approaches and their effects on extended families. As you can see, I argue that orphanages draw children away from extended families, weakening the safety-net. Conversely, there are a number of reinforcement strategies that strengthen the safety-net.

Colder Weather

Land Rovers vs. Mud Huts

In a study by Brigitte Zimmerman entitled "Orphan Living Situations in Malawi: A Comparison of Orphanages and Foster Homes," a community member is quoted as saying:

"We appreciate the outsiders taking care of our children, but of course, we always know that it is because they have so much money. They drive around in their Land Rovers and we just think, ‘Of course, if I had that much money, I could help my own children.’ If we could choose between having outsiders solve the problem with their money, and finding a way to get our own money and do it ourselves, I think most of us would rather perform the services ourselves (Zimmerman, 911)."

CLICK HERE to read the study. 

Any program that draws orphans away from extended families instead of strengthening those families is doing more harm than good.

Poverty as Entertainment

"They should be explaining to Kenyans why so many of the country’s citizens have no choice but to pee and poo in a bag."


The Daily Nation, a leading newspaper in Kenya, ran an opinion piece today on slum tours in Kibera.

"Poverty as entertainment: Please put to an end Kibera slum tours"

"The Invisible Cure"

After returning from my first trip to Kenya in December 2008, I began to read a number of books concerning issues in Africa that I had witnessed first hand. Wandering in the library one day, I picked up "The Invisible Cure" by Helen Epstein and read it cover to cover. Twice. The emotions I was not able to articulate were beautifully expressed in this amazing book. I learned an incredible amount of useful information and was never bored. 

I have included some memorable quotes [emphasis mine].

“He told us, perhaps only partly in jest, that they talk about two kinds of AIDS in Uganda: slim AIDS and fat AIDS. People with slim AIDS get slimmer and slimmer and slimmer until they finally disappear. Fat AIDS afflicts doctors, bureaucrats, and foreign-aid consultants with enormous grants and salaries; they fly around the world to exotic places and get fatter and fatter and fatter. Fat AIDS had become so common in Uganda, he said, that if you said you were working on HIV, people thought you were a thief” (Epstein, 27).

“Everyone seems to know what Africa needs, but sometimes I think our minds are not really on it. Most of us see only Africa’s contours, and we use them to map out problems of our own. Africa is a career move, and adventure, and experiment. It fades into an idea” (Epstein, 37).

“It was heartening that Western donors were now spending so much money on AIDS programs in Africa. But the problem with some large foreign-aid programs was that distributing the funds often involved negotiating with governments with a poor record of dealing with AIDS. In addition, the huge sums of money involved were often very difficult to manage, so that small community-based groups that needed thousands of dollars, rather than millions – like Inkanyezi in Orange Farm – were often overlooked in favor of overly ambitious megaprojects, whose effectiveness had not been demonstrated and whose premises were open to question” (Epstein, 140).

“…if you fire-hose poor countries with development dollars, you risk generating a mad scrum for money, and it’s no use blaming Africans (again) when the money is misused. Truly well-designed aid programs… involve hard, unglamorous work and have very pragmatic goals. They involve close monitoring of simple projects...” (Epstein, 208).

“As Elizabeth said, referring to NOAH’s takeover bid, “When the Americans come, we sing, we dance, they take our picture, and they go back and show everyone how they are helping poor black people. But then all they do is hijack our projects and count our children” (Epstein, 227).

If you would like to read a portion of the book online, check out an excerpt at the New York Times.

"One morning in November 2001, two officials from a Kenyan AIDS organization picked me up from my hotel in Nairobi and took me on a drive. We drove and drove all day, over muddy tracks, through endless pineapple and coffee plantations, rural villages and slums, through all of Africa, it seemed, to arrive at a small field, perhaps half an acre, with some weeds growing in it and an old woman standing there with a hoe.

"I had not expected this. I was reporting on AIDS programs for an American foundation, and most of the other projects I had visited were either medical programs, AIDS awareness campaigns using billboards, radio or television spots, or traveling roadshows designed to promote AIDS awareness or condoms or HIV testing. I was about to say something when one of my guides spoke first.

'We are very proud of this project.'

So I said nothing. About twenty women had saved up for two years to buy this land. All of them were supporting orphans whose parents had died of AIDS, and they hoped the land would produce enough food for about fifty people in all. On a nearby hill, one of Kenya's vast corporate-owned coffee plantations loomed like the edge of the sea. The old woman kept glancing at it as though it might sweep her away. I was moved by what I saw, although I didn't understand at the time how this project was supposed to fight AIDS. This book explains how I came to do so."

Constructing Orphanages: A Western Invention and Its Problem for Africa [Part 1]

I wrote a paper in December 2009 on the support of African orphanages by Western Christians and its devastating effects on orphan care. I have since toned done my rhetoric after being repeatedly labeled "abrasive" by many of my close friends. My views have developed significantly in the last year, but I believe the points I made below remain valid.

When thinking about Africa and its children in need, Western culture has an obsession with the idea of orphanages. Perhaps it is rooted in our beliefs about God. The goal of Christian missionaries in Africa is essentially to convert the Africans to accepting a Christian system of beliefs, namely, a belief in Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior.  There is no better way to accomplish this goal than through the children. An institution that separates children from their communities can teach those children whatever system of beliefs it wants. Hence, we see the idea that orphanages are a way to construct model individuals who are firm believers in Jesus Christ. It seems as if every Christian orphanage receives its funding from appeals such as “working to spread the Gospel” or creating children that “demonstrate strong Christian values." If the only goal of missionaries is to win souls, it makes sense to stop examination of the issue of orphan care after the initial mission process. The orphan care crisis is much more complex than constructing an orphanage and teaching the children to sing "Jesus Loves Me" [or parts of the catechism]. Unfortunately, the examination of orphanages ends at the fact that the children will be raised as Christians, limiting examination of the actual impact of the institution. It is clear that halting the critique of orphanages by the western Christians has led to the reinforcement of stereotypes, the damaging of children, and the creation of more orphans.  Orphanages stir up an image that invokes the colonial and pre-colonial stereotypes of Africans - pagans in need of the white man’s religion to become civilized.

With the best intentions, churches pump their congregations full of pictures of suffering abandoned and orphaned children. These pictures are used, quite successfully, to trigger an emotional response that opens a person’s heart and wallet. Pictures are shown of sad, dirty children sitting in filth with flies on their faces and snot running from their nose. These pictures are followed with those of a nice building – an orphanage – where dozens of children are running, smiling, and playing. Of course, some children must be pictured with the white people who came to save them. This image, repeatedly portrayed in churches, on university campuses, with television commercials, and throughout fundraisers, damages the very people it is intended to help. Regardless of intentions, this dehumanizing rhetoric promotes a racist image of do-nothing Africans whose children are saved by the gracious white do-gooder. The reality could not be further from the truth.

A statistic that is almost never mentioned is that 90% or more of orphans are caught in the “community-safety net” (Roby, 200). In other words, the extended family - aunts, uncles, grandparents, neighbors, and friends – provide care for children who have lost their parents. The remaining 1-10% make up child-headed households, street children, and those in orphanages. In fact, the traditional system in many African cultures naturally absorbs children whose parents have died. 

Dr. Chipfakacha of the World Health Organization in Botswana wrote an article comparing pre-colonial and post-colonial orphan coping mechanisms and stated, “Of significance however, is that the ‘orphan care’ concept is totally foreign to African cultures” (Chipfakacha, 2). The author then elaborates on the kin-based system that absorbed children into homes of the extended family in the case of parental death before colonialism. The pre-colonial system had a number of advantages, namely, “no stigma as none of the children could tell who was an orphan and who was not”, “the orphans grew up in a complete family,” and “there was self reliance and not dependence on some one else” (Chipfakacha, 4). Furthermore, delocalizing forces such as smaller family units and migration are weakening the “traditional indigenous institutions” that are supporting “orphans, widows, and other vulnerable members of the community” (Nyambedha, 520). Orphanages are undermining the system that is already naturally in place. Instead of supplying resources to community-based organizations, local chiefs and community leaders, and working to strengthen the orphan support system already in place, strategies were imposed that led to their weakening. Westerners bought land, constructed an orphanage, and soon they were drawing children away from the local community safety net.

When justifying orphanages, the talking points are very similar. “First, if the parents die, the extended family should take the child in. Second, the community should take them in. But, if the child falls through these two defenses, they are taken to the orphanage as the last resort.” Though it makes sense in theory, the outcome is drastically different. Orphanages overwhelmingly appear to be supply driven, meaning that their construction is determined by those who have the desire to build them regardless of demand. The construction of an orphanage draws children regardless of whether or not they were children without caregivers. In Children of AIDS, a community member is quoted as saying “When orphanages open, like a vacuum, they soon fill up” (Guest, 87). It was not as if there were hundreds of children on the street, naked and starving, waiting to get into the orphanage. The children instead came from the homes of their grandparents, aunts, other extended family members, and friends who either were attracted by the high standard of living offered by the orphanage, or were pushed by poverty-stricken relatives. The current system is ripping a hole through the community safety net - the very thing that should be strengthened. For example, the number of orphanages in a country appears to have more to do with the stability of the country than the magnitude of the orphan population.  Instead of focusing on the self-proclaimed last resort, the obvious question should be, “What is being done to reinforce the first two defenses?” The West has been pouring money into an orphan care “solution,” that only addresses 1-10% of orphans and undermines the first two lines of defense. Unfortunate as it is, impoverished children with little resources will be attracted to situations where their material standard of living appears to increase. This puts the lives of thousands of African children in the hands of foreigners who continue placing them in orphanages. The accepted belief of orphanages is spreading across Africa as well. More and more Africans now believe that orphans belong in orphanages. This mentality will certainly weaken the number of families who foster children.

Instead of working harder to support more children and stretching scarce resources even further, many Africans now have the incentive not to take care of orphaned children. An article featured in the New York Times highlights this saying “children placed in institutions are often seen as the lucky ones” (Dugger). New reports by UNICEF indicate that poverty, not parental death, is the leading cause of orphanage admittance (Dugger). Instead of the church addressing core issues of poverty, it is building poverty shelters for children. Orphanages are such a large part of the perception of orphan care, that half of the BBC article covering Save the Children’s assertion that, “At least four out of five children in orphanages around the world have a living parent” was devoted to people who rejected the claims (“Most 'orphans' have a living parent, says charity"). Whatever the truth, it is hard to deny that large sums of money flow to orphanages and little - if any - flows to families. The New York Times argues, “But even as orphanages have sprung up across Africa with donations from Western churches and charities, the families who care for the vast majority of the continent’s orphans have gotten no help at all, household surveys show” (Dugger). Ironically, the West is building orphanages for children it claims have no caregivers, drawing those children away from their caregivers, and unintentionally discourages other caregivers from taking in children.

Hundreds of scenarios could be supplied, but the conclusion is the same: Orphanages weaken the community safety net. Indeed, the actual quote from a orphanage website illustrates the point perfectly,

As the guardians came we tried to explain that this money is meant for the children and won’t be paid if they are not staying at the children’s home, but we couldn’t succeed. Subsequent, we decided to wait until the school will open again since all of them cannot afford school fees and food so we hope they will recognize that the children’s home can provide them better with education, food and a better environment than the slum (Hegemann, 3).

The above quote admits that the children have guardians who care about them and are willing to take care of them, but they will only receive help if they are living at the orphanage. These are children who could be growing up with a family in their community, but are drawn away by the “children’s home.” This “home” is not a last resort, but a feel-good opportunity for westerners, a line on a resume for foreign volunteers, and a job opportunity for locals. This orphanage, and so many others, is actively drawing children away from the community safety net. They believe that the “safe haven” they offer is a better alternative for children living in the slums. Instead, this group would be better to offer boarding school that provides free schooling to orphans. The caregivers should not have to choose between feeding and educating a child they care for or letting the child go to the orphanage. There is a middle ground – helping the child with the caregiver at the present location. Ministries that work to pay the school fees of the children where they are and support the family in the care of that child seem to have the best approach. If the logic is correct of the aforementioned orphanage, then all children from poor families should be removed and placed in institutions. Explained this way, most people would be repulsed by the idea of rounding up children from their caregivers based on income. 

Orphanages certainly have an unmistakable donor appeal. When mission trips arrive, they can hand out food and toys at one central location. They have the opportunity to see all the “happy” children with “no parents” and take an excessive amount of pictures. Having children gathered in one location is the ideal setup for a sponsorship program, where the West’s monthly donation is suggested to sustain the life of Africans in need. As opposed to foster care, where the large group of white people would have to travel around from house to house and witness a rather boring site: one or two children in a home living a quite average African lifestyle in a family setting. The children might share a bed with other family members and not have running water, which does not impress most donors. Westerners see how they raise their own children and decide that is the standard by which they will judge the care of African children. Thus, measuring by a Western standard, a person who takes a two-week mission trip would think that orphanages were providing better care than those in homes with families.

Though it would take pages to expand on the negative effects of institutionalized care on children, Westerners still believe that children are better off in orphanages. This is related to both how they construct African children and all those who are impoverished. It seems as if almost every church is supporting an orphanage somewhere in Africa. Without an African “mission,” the church would almost seem incomplete. In fact, this is why the accepted beliefs concerning Africans are so dangerous. People who have not studied the orphan crisis in Africa and who know little about African cultures are shaping the policies that are responding to this crisis. Orphanages are so widely accepted as the “default” response to the problem of orphans, that they are replicating and expanding. Part of their popularity derives from the ease in which the project can be accomplished. It is much easier to monitor children in one building than across a community. It is much easier to supervise staff and purchase food for children living in one location, rather than across a community. It is much easier to isolate the surrounding community than to engage it. Part of the reason that community-based solutions have received less help from Westerners is because they are indeed harder to manage. Their progress is much more difficult to define than the construction of a building and how many children are now living in it. As mentioned earlier, foster care does not have the orphanage donor appeal. On top of all these complications, there are repeated instances of Africans who are manipulating the system for their own financial benefit. This further reinforces the perception of Africans that continues to hinder real progress. Most Westerners do not have the necessary understanding or will to implement such a project. Thus, we continue to see new projects and campaigns by churches to fund orphanages.

Church Corruption

"There comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular, but he must take it because his conscience tells him it is right...." Martin Luther


"You are not only responsible for what you say, but also for what you do not say." Martin Luther


"I would never have thought that such a storm would rise from Rome over one simple scrap of paper..." Martin Luther

Together.

By Friday afternoon, Tom was ready for the weekend. Like most other eight year old boys in the world, Tom squirmed in his desk until the teacher's dismissal. Freedom! He knew there were chores to do but he took the long way home. Kicking a ball made out of plastic bags and rope, the dusty bare-feet of the boys in his class stampeded down the road.

The cows rushed out of the way as if they had seen this herd before; they knew the wrath of eight year old boys. As they passed the shop, Tom licked his lips, imagining the taste of the colorful lollypops displayed behind the thin iron bars. Tamu, he said to himself. When he arrived home, he considered asking his mother for five shillings to buy a lollipop, but decides against it, knowing the painful consequence if he upsets her.

On Fridays he is the first to arrive home. His two older sisters will not arrive home from school until later. Usually, he arrives home to school to find his mother who is always ready to assign a chore. His older sisters love to boss him around. When he is fighting with his sisters, it is then that he misses his dead brother the most. If only he were still here, he thought, I wouldn’t have these problems. He picks up the pace to make it home; there is a sense of power being home along and pretending that you do not have to answer to anyone.

He opens the door to his small hut. He is startled by his father who is slouched over on the couch. It does not take long for Tom to try to wake his father’s lifeless body. His effort is in vain; his father is dead. Mamma!, he shouts, knowing that she is too far to hear him. Mamma!, he shouts as his dusty legs dash toward the river.

_________________________

It didn’t take very long. The inability to survive is not something that hits a person slowly. The growl of the stomach and the empty pocket sing a brutal chorus of agony that demands action. To many widows and their children, the song concludes in migration. Instead of bearing the ills they had, they flew to others that they did not know; any other ills had to be better than the present.

When the breadwinner dies, there is no longer bread. Not even crumbs. They hope; they pray, that a move to the city will offer some kind of opportunity. With no reason to stay, and no where to go, they arrived in the city with everything they own. They walked to the slum and found a small one room mud-hut that was to become home.

Life had changed for Tom. He lost his father, and though he could of done nothing, still reprimands himself for not coming straight home. He felt responsible for his mother and sisters. I am the man of the house now, he said to himself. He wanted to provide for them, but knew he couldn’t. His mother and oldest sister sold their body to eat. Deeming it prostitution is an insult. Deeming it “Survival sex” connotes that it was consensual. Starvation Rape is probably a more proper name.

And so it began. When the slum is home, the widows suffer, the girls are commodities, and the boys become corrupt. Education is replaced by survival. As much as Tom dreaded school back at home, he now couldn’t wait to return. It was clear to him, however, that was never going to happen.

_________________________

Three years later, Tom knows the slum. He ignores how his mother generates income, and has enough friends to provide his own protection. He is numb to the things that used to shock him. Drunk men would come into his home demanding money. Tom and his mother had none. They would beat us with a belt because we didn’t give them money. “Who did they beat?” Everyone in the house. “Even your mother?” They would beat my mother until she gave them money.

Alcohol has an interesting role in the slum. Widows often brew to generate income. Drunk men often take advantage of widows. Boys are brought up in the way of beer. Girls are brought up in way of abuse. The culture of the slum continues by reproducing its sickening ways in its children.

_________________________

The inevitable happened. Especially in Sub-Saharan Africa, especially in the slums, selling you body has it’s risks. Tom’s mother contracted HIV. She wasn’t surprised. She knew it was a risk she was taking in order to feed her children. It didn’t take long. Her body deteriorated. They didn’t have enough money for food, let alone enough money for a hospital.

And here is how the poor die; in their homes as their children watch. Calling it injustice won’t make it go away. Free ARVs do only harm if not accompanied with food. The medicine was killing her faster than the disease, so she let it takes its course. As the skin fell off her face and bloodied her clothes, Tom was there to clean her. He did what he could to find food.

At eleven years old, he prepared the food and would help his mother sit up to eat. He would bathe her with soap and water when she was too weak to do it herself. After a slow painful death, Tom’s mother, and a part of Tom, died.

_________________________

No relatives wanted them. “Total Orphans.” That is what they were now called. No mother and no father to provide for them. The kids begged for money for the funeral. They were able to buy their mother a casket and bury her. Only one relative was willing to take care of them. An uncle said he wanted the boys, Tom, and his now two year old brother, to come and work for him in the rural areas. The girls would stay in the slum.

They refused. They were in this. Together.

_________________________

I walk into the living room. I see him crying, but hiding his tears. I sit down next to him and ask him what is wrong. Though we both know the answer, no one speaks it. I ask him if he wants to talk about it. He says no. I take him with me anyway.

Tom and his siblings have been safe for over a year. They eat well, have adults who love and take care of them, and the opportunity to attend a good schools. Most of the time, Tom is all smiles. It feels good to know he can be a kid again. But he has forever left a piece of his soul with his dead brother, father, and mother. Someone ran away with his innocence.

He followed me from the living room hanging his head and wiping his eyes. We found a quiet place and cried together.

Another Day

The sun rises. A twelve-year-old boy sits up from the floor of his small one-room house and begins to get ready for school. Trying not to wake up his baby brother, he slips on his uniform and shoes. Grabbing his book-bag, he checks the status of the thin thread that is strung on the noticeable hole near the bottom to make sure his books do not slide out. His stomach growls, but today, like most days, there is no slice of bread for breakfast. He will have to wait until lunch at school. He pulls open the crooked door, pushing the thin white fabric to the side, and begins his trek to school.

To some, this might seem like any morning before school. But Bevon relishes in the experience. He loves his uniform and shoes. His book-bag is torn but he wears it proudly. He loves getting up before the others and having a place to go. He admits that he loves everything about school – except for math, a subject he particularly struggles with.

But a struggle with a subject in school does not faze him. He asks for help and eagerly shows up to be tutored. Even when I was unexpectedly unable to attend our scheduled sessions, he forgives and eagerly awaits the next one. He always managed to convince me to play with him on the playground afterward – apparently a humorous sight according to onlookers. For all the struggles Bevon has been through, it is amazing that he is still able to let loose and play like a normal twelve-year-old boy.

Bevon’s mother is physically handicapped and his father is dead. Not being able to provide for her children and watching them suffer, Bevon’s mother had severe bouts with depression and repeatedly attempted suicide. She didn’t have enough money to feed her children or pay their school fees. Bevon did the only thing he knew how to do to support his mother: spend the day wading through garbage to collect scrap pieces of medal. Instead of a book-bag, Bevon carried a trash-bag. Instead of books, he carried scrap pieces of medal. Instead of studying math, he was counting trash.

With the 20 shillings ($0.25) he earned, he would buy vegetables to bring home to his mother and siblings. The hardships continued for some time, but unlike so many other children, Bevon was given a chance to attend school through the CSCM Education Support program. The family started attending church at Springs of Life. Pastor Meeker baptized Bevon’s youngest brother, and Deaconess Lorna helped his mother start a fish selling business. Two months down the line she was able to pay her own rent and purchase her own food. When Bevon outgrew his uniform, his mother was able to purchase him a new one.

I remember asking Bevon if he wanted to attend boarding school. His face lit up and his priceless smile gave me the answer. He talked about how great it would be to have his own bed, a drastic improvement from his position on the floor. He talked of the blue uniform and his friends who were already there. 

That was July 2009. More than a year later, I return. I can honestly say not a day has gone by where I did not think of Bevon and the other boys. Under most circumstances, constant memory of a person makes your time apart seem longer. But in this situation, that did not seem to be the case. As we made the hour long drive to the boarding school, I felt if I had only been with them all yesterday. Though I was gone for over a year, I felt like I had never left.

The guard opened the gate and we entered. It wasn’t an official visiting day, so we had to finagle the headmaster into letting us see the boys. One by one, they trickled out of the classrooms and began walked toward where we sat under the tree. Their reactions were priceless; typical of boys who think they are men. First, there is a burst of boyish excitement, then a shy smile that avoids eye contact to hide an overt display of emotion. When a few of us were standing there, I asked Brian, “So, did you miss me?” He answered with a quick, “Yes,” and gave me a hostile glare, as if he was offended by my asking.

Just then, Bevon came around the building directly behind the classrooms. Before he saw me, I noticed he appeared a little confused as to why he was being pulled out of class. When he saw the tall white guy under the tree with a group of his friends, he knew why. Bevon made no attempt to hide his excited. He let out a loud “Eye!” and began running. His body larger than he realizes, he almost plows me over as he gives me a hug. He is quiet for a moment, only to break the silence with another “Eye!”

For the next twenty minutes, we were too loud and too obnoxious. We reminisced about all of the hilarious times we had the year before. They filled me in on a bunch of new inside jokes. I met the new boys who I had never met before, of whom I had only seen pictures. They acted as if they had always known me because their brothers were so at home.  We made fun of each other and took group pictures. They told me I had gotten too fat and I kept commenting on how much they have grown. We tried to remember all of the nicknames we used last year. 

They tried to show me how good they were at rapping. Three of them claimed to be acrobats, and actually showed some skill. They introduced me to their teacher who they obviously felt very close. We paid their fee for the class trip to the museum. They tried to talk me into meeting them at the museum so I could see them again. I told them we would be too disruptive. They asked if I could stay with them for the next few weeks until school closed. They said, “Our teacher wouldn’t mind.” I told them they were being ridiculous.

I was informed it was time to go, and we said our goodbyes. They were obviously annoyed, letting me know, “You just got here.” I wanted to stay, but the dreadful thing about being an “adult” is the super rationality of our lives. I walked toward the gate to return to the main road. We had more schools to visit that day and had to keep an eye on the time. As we packed ourselves into a matatu and headed for the next school, I couldn’t help but think of where all of those boys came from. Many don’t have fathers of mothers, their only home is a Rescue Center, and up until recently thought they would never have the chance to attend school.

I thought of the trash in Kibera, where Bevon and Brian tried to find their meals. I thought of the orphanage in Maasai land, where Joseph was sleeping on the floor with no one taking care of him. I thought of the huts in Kwalangware, where Jared lived with his sisters, not knowing where they would get their next meal. I thought of the abuse Teddy and Tony have been through.

For a moment I am angry. Then relieved that they are there no longer. Then content because I have done something. Then anxious because I haven’t done enough.  Then weak because I'm doing everything in my power. Then disgusted because I left. Then disappointed that I have failed them. Then hopeful because there is still time. 

Just as my chest tightens and my eyes begin to water, the matatu comes to a stop as the door screeches open. We have arrived at the gate of another school.

Hear the Whisper of Our Savior

Written October 2008.
Inspired by Kibera, Kenya
Words by Jacob Fraher
To the tune of
"Hark The Voice of Jesus Calling"
LW 318
Music:Galilean

Hear the whisper of our Savior:
"Take your cross and follow me.
Do not worry. Do not terry.
Faith in me is all you need."
Lies, Injustice, and all Evil:
Be consumed by Gospel fire
With a righteous anger press on
Humbleness and Love admire.

Hear the command of our Savior:
"Take your cross and follow me."
Humble yourself life our Jesus
Wash the dirt off beggars feet.
Orphans, Prostitutes and Sinners
Yes, the kingdom is of these.
To the sick he sends a doctor
An eternal remedy.

Hear the screaming of our Savior
God is dying on that tree
Humbly he came from glory
Broke the gates of hell for me
Death nor sin nor hell could hold him
Christ's ambassadors are we.
Love your God and Love your neighbour.
Show your faith in all your deeds.

Jesus! Jesus! Yes we hear you!
May your holy will be done.
Break our hearts when your hearts broken
Saving Grace through you begun
To the hungry and the helpless
Send the hope that lives in me
A Cross to bear. A charge to keep.
Walking toward eternity.

Dragged to Your Cross

Words can’t describe it.
Heartbreaking?
Maybe - but that places too much emphasis on you.
It wasn’t about you.
It was about them.
There was a pain in the room.
It transcended - no, consumed - the onlooker.
A jolt of reality with such force that you thought your heart was broken.
The sad part is that it wasn’t broken - the heart.
The pain felt was not enough to satisfy the pain you wish you felt.
And you are left. Not left alone like them, but left alone with yourself.
with an entirely intact beating heart, predictably pumping to the pulse of life.
A broken heart that didn’t even skip a beat? No.
The steady beat reminds you that the pain is not enough.
Another second passes - the memory is that much farther away.
Ironically, the pain grows as the pain decreases.
You try to forget, but struggle to remember.
The details fade, and you are left with a dream - a nightmare.
They don’t understand you. Then again, how could they?
You don’t even understand yourself.
You sang all night, cried, prayed - begged.
Your heart was highjacked by the pain.
Or maybe - a willing slave.
Chained to both endless love and a departure time.
Dragged through death’s valley, then thrown on a plane.
You’ve learned to smile, going through the motions.
Steadily flipping the pages of life - but you know where the story goes.
You asked to go home - but He changed its location.
You asked for your heart to be broken - but He dragged you to your cross.