This is Part II of a two-part article. To read Part I, click here.

Amidst the overwhelming challenge of addressing sensitive issues like Female Genital Cutting, the organization Tostan works with villages instead of against them.

To learn more, Tatiana and I headed back to Dakar to join up with Tostan employees. Before long, we hopped in the Tostan vehicle with Kalidou, the Tostan National Director of Senegal, and another employee to journey across the country to experience the work of Tostan firsthand.

Well…to experience a fete firsthand. Translation: party.

Yes, I was a little skeptical to hear that Tostan, promoter of human rights in nearly 10 African nations for 30 years, is busy throwing parties. But these are no ordinary parties—they are declarations.

How It Goes

To be a part of Tostan, a village participates in the three-year Community Empowerment Program—facilitated lessons on everything from accounting to health and hygiene to basic human rights. The facilitator comes from the same ethnic group as the majority of the village where he or she is teaching and is therefore familiar with local customs. Tostan hires a facilitator and provides training and support, and the hosting village provides housing, food and a place for the CEP classes to be held with a co-ed group of villagers.

Tostan meeting with local and national leaders, including Kalidou Sy (in green), Tostan Senegal National Director.

In addition to setting up a CEP class, the village forms a Community Management Committee comprised of nine women and eight men. The committee works in conjunction with the members of the CEP class to lead development projects in the village—they’re the link that helps turn ideas and discussions into action.

At the end of three years, some villages decide to hold a public declaration. They usually compose a written statement of how they will uphold basic human rights in their village—how they will move away from forcing girls to marry at an early age and drop out of school, how they will abandon practices like FGC that put a woman’s health at risk.

Once these declarations are composed, well…there is obviously reason to celebrate!

A Big Deal

I walked into the central plaza of the town of Bakel unsure of what to expect from such a grand Tostan “declaration.” People from the surrounding villages began pouring into the city the night before the event—69 villages in total.

These girls are learning about the basic tenets of human rights, including their right to an education and control over their own bodies.

That’s right. In this one area alone, Tostan programs run in 69 villages. At this event, 20 villages were to “declare,” or make their promise to uphold women and children’s rights in their villages as discussed during their three years as Community Empowerment Program participants. The other 49 villages in attendance were all somewhere in their three years of lessons.

Tatiana and I waded through the sea of women dressed in their best, most colorful dresses to the hundreds of chairs and accompanying shade tents surrounding the dirt plaza where drums were already starting. We situated ourselves in a spot barely inside the shade next to a girl with soft features wearing a sparkling white dress.

Meet Mariama

She introduced herself as Mariama from Gouniang. Mariama carries herself with the solemnity of someone much older than her 18 years. Perhaps her critical, attentive disposition is what made her a good candidate for participation in her village’s Tostan class.

Mariama, standing on her chair to watch the dancing.

She may have only attended three years of formal schooling, but Mariama is learning skills now through her Community Empowerment Program that will give her responsibility in the well-being of her entire community in the future. Hopefully, Mariama’s village will be reading their own declaration at an event like this one a year from now.

As the event began, Mariama leaned forward in her chair, soaking up the words of the local leaders as they shared congratulations with the community. She and her classmates listened to the speakers and nodded along, at one point shaking their heads and reiterating, “forced marriage is bad,” to one another in their local language of Pulaar.

What Went Down

Mariama watched over Tatiana and me out of the corner of her eye throughout the event. She even clicked her tongue assertively at me during the prayer to attract my attention and show me the proper way to hold my hands. I flipped my palms up and overlapped my fingers before I caused her any more embarrassment.

Some of the local girls performing a dance for the event. They came in wearing t-shirts and holding signs about ending forced marriage and excision.

As the event went on (and on and on…as is tradition with Senegalese fetes), we watched lively dances from one of the local ethnic groups and listened to poems and speeches, honoring the “positive” local traditions.

Everything about the event built up the local citizens—they came of their own free will to declare a better future for their children and daughters. They publicly declared to respect their girls’ right to go to school, to choose to enter into marriage, and to be free from the dangerous practice of FGC.

The Right Direction

We asked Mariama about her Tostan lessons so far. She told us about her new knowledge of money keeping, hygiene, counting and how now, at the age of 18, she can write her own name. She hopes the lessons will end forced and early marriage in her village.

Although the road may be a long one, Mariama is a part of discussions now that will hopefully create new standards for human rights in her village. It takes a moment to tell someone what is illegal, but it may take a movement, an entire community of heightened consciousness, to respect it.

Diairi, calling her peers and community to action!

We looked around at the event, girls holding signs declaring, “End Excision!” (FGC) in French, and decided we could ask the question.

“Mariama, what do you think of excision?” I asked through Tatiana.

“Not good. It’s illegal,” she asserted (what did I expect?)

But looking around at the entire community—men, women, local and regional leaders—all walking proudly into a collaboration to protect the well-being of their people, I believed Mariama was telling me the truth.

Disclaimer: This article contains some graphic content. It is intended for mature audiences only.

—–

I looked at Tatiana across our dinner bowl, scanned the face of her host mom next to us, then turned back to Kali, the ancient, sickly man asleep on the ground.

Kali no longer works and is without family or means to care for himself, so he wanders the village. He frequents the compound of Tatiana’s host family, curls up on a mat of reeds next to an equally lethargic dog and waits for a meal. Kali once held the title of village “excisioner,” the man who earned a living by performing Female Genital Cutting on the local girls.

Government laws and programs don’t necessarily make it all the way out to these guys in the village.

Broaching the topic is a struggle, even for Tatiana who is well incorporated into the village and her host family. She’s asked about it before, but she feels like people are still uncomfortable talking openly about it to her, a white person. She offered to ask her host mom again, for my sake, over dinner.

But when Tatiana casually inquired about whether or not someone had replaced Kali as village excisioner, her mom gave the expected, appropriate response:

“Of course not. That’s illegal.”

Some of the Facts

Girls grow up very fast in village life, but should FGC be part of “becoming a woman”?

True. The practice became illegal in Senegal in 1999, but just like public transportation and government schools, the law does not always reach remote villages.  And whether it’s happening or not, few people want to discuss it with an outsider. Female Genital Cutting, also referred to as Female Genital Mutilation or Female Circumcision, has traditionally been practiced in most African nations (as well as a few other countries).

FGC looks different in different cultures, but in general, the procedure involves removing some or all of a young girl’s external genitalia. This rarely occurs with any sort of pain killer, and conditions are usually less than sterile. A girl undergoes the procedure as a part of cultural initiation or to deter her from being sexually promiscuous (the idea being if sex is no longer enjoyable, then she won’t want to sleep around).

Some girls suffer from infection or hemorrhaging from the procedure itself or contract HIV through unsterilized knives and razor blades. Even if they make it through the procedure healthy, they are at greater risk of difficulty in childbirth later on, putting mother and baby in danger.

From the Outside

To be frank, just thinking about the subject induces a pretty strong gag reaction in me, a woman who has never lived in a culture where FGC (or anything close) is permissible. And I’m not alone; even the United Nations has launched strong action against the practice, looking out for the welfare of girls around the world.

FGC is perpetuated through the generations by men and women.

I couldn’t be happier about condemning FGC. I mean, it’s cruel, derogatory towards women on principle and obviously wrong…right?

Well, maybe obviously wrong isn’t so culturally sensitive. In fact, mine is the zealous stance that serves as a pitfall for many do-gooders who try to broach the subject from the outside. We jump into a village or country carrying laws and threats without acknowledging the deep-rooted significance of what we’re attacking.

For example, what happens when one village decides to abandon the practice, but the women of the village are supposed to marry men of the neighboring village where FGC is still practiced? They may be left without husbands and therefore without children—the social security system of bush life.

Moreover, how would you respond if the primary message you received from the outside was, “Stop! Your culture is barbaric,” when you were only trying to look out for the well-being of your children?

Where to Start

There’s an organization out there to promote a healthy future for girls in Senegal.

It’s a sticky situation. The risks to physical and emotional health from FGC are real, even if the people who still practice it are unaware of them, but many villages are leery about discussing such topics with those outside of their communities.

Where to start? How can anyone possibly begin to navigate the intricate fabric of culture, stigma and inaccessibility that surrounds the practice of Female Genital Cutting in remote villages in dozens of countries around the world?

Well, there’s one organization on the ground doing just that…

“Are there crocodiles in Senegal?” I inquired at the edge of the stream, blocking our way across the path.

“Yes,” Tatiana asserted as she ploughed through the moonlit water. I hardly had time to turn my flashlight on before she’d reached the other side.

Right. Why check? I splashed behind, shining my light around the water…just in case.

This is a termite mound growing inside of Tatiana’s hut. Just one of the many special touches of nature in her home!

I’ve never considered myself a worrier, but following Tatiana around Senegal has definitely pushed the limits a little. After living in village for over a year as a Peace Corps volunteer, some adjustments to perspective are expected. She doesn’t worry much about what she eats, and she doesn’t flinch when a neighbor gives her a live chicken as a gift to carry home over 7 km.

It’s all just part of life.

Uncomfortable

But other things are a little harder to stomach. For example, Tatiana has found no less than three Black Mambas (a deadly snake) in her hut. Her hair is thinning from malnutrition. She’s suffered multiple skin infections. And last year, she came down with a case of Shigella (a form of dysentery) during the hot season when temperatures reach 120 degrees Fahrenheit.

Tatiana gathering her beans from the fields.

“You know, as miserable as Shigella was, it was great to feel a chill. I had to cover with a blanket! I sort of hope I get a fever this hot season…” she told me, optimistically.

Well, at least she gets adequate compensation for her suffering, right? Not exactly. Upon arriving in Senegal, Tatiana received three months of training, a mosquito net, a water filter, a bike and one ride out to her village. Now, she receives a modest living stipend and will leave her service with a few thousand dollars to pay for things before finding a job.

Basically, there are a number of things a college graduate with a dual degree in economics and Spanish could do that would bring in more cash and involve far fewer mosquitoes. But despite all of this, there is no place Tatiana would rather be for these two years than in the village of Ethiolo.

Becoming Local

Tatiana was sent to Ethiolo as a Small Enterprise Development volunteer. Since arriving in village, she’s been learning about the women’s groups, community gardens, marketable local products, Bassari cultural tourism and more in an effort to figure out sustainable ways for the people to generate more income to send children to school, feed their families during the starving season and pay for important things like medicine.

Tatiana and a local teacher, Antoinette, preparing curriculum for the girls’ program.

But above all, her responsibility is to learn. She has been thrown into the humbling situation of living amongst an entirely new culture with people who survive by the work of their hands and reliance on one another.

Tatiana is not their savior; she is an honored guest in their home.

“It is good that she’s here,” her host mom told me (through Tatiana translating, of course) over our shared dinner bowl, “we can teach her many things she doesn’t know.”

And teach her they have. She helps farm, participates in food preparation and she’s learning more of the two local languages daily. Her mom even gave Tatiana her own plot of land to farm this year. Tatiana blends in seamlessly with her family as she sits around the compound and sorts peanuts or jokes with her host sisters about the local men.

Her Place

The adaptation is not without hiccups. Tatiana grows frustrated with little things like the practice of the entire village visiting the hut of sick person (it really cuts in on rest time). We also couldn’t help but shake our heads when her host brother intentionally cut his foot with a razor one morning at breakfast to “bleed out” his sprained ankle.

Antoinette and Tatiana meeting with the mothers in the village to discuss the upcoming program for their daughters.

Tatiana speaks up when something is dangerous, but in general, she is not in Ethiolo to change local practices. She waits for opportunities where her knowledge may be of use. She cites teaching her host mom how to document sales on market day as one of the most important contributions she’s made. And lately, one of the local teachers approached her with the idea to address important health and life issues facing young girls through a series of lessons.

When ideas like these come up, Tatiana helps gather resources, whether it’s finding markers, doing internet research or applying for a grant from the local World Vision office. She serves as a link between her village and many well-intentioned programs that sometimes don’t quite make it out to Ethiolo. Her work brings her in contact with the ins and outs of poverty alleviation efforts on the ground level.

Open Up

Tatiana probably won’t solve world hunger during her two year stint in Ethiolo, but the impact of her experience in her own life and the life of the village is unknown. Because of her willingness to let go of the familiar, she’s gaining an understanding unlike any other:

Tatiana and her host mom out in the fields.

What does sponsoring a child look like from the other side? How does corruption play into development work? How do local people feel about practices like female genital cutting, labeled by the international community as a human rights violation? What does poverty actually mean?

Tatiana’s commitment reminds me that to find out—I mean really strive to understand—it takes more than just asking the right questions or being in the right place. We must humble ourselves. We must be open to other paradigms, accepting that ours are merely a few among many.

Maybe we all need a year in someone else’s village.

The stories I keep hearing here in Toronto leave me struggling for breath. Despite the overlapping aspects, the tales still hit me like a punch to the gut. And I’m left searching for an answer to the “hows” and “whys” of their story.

Every single person that walks in and out of the doors at Sanctuary certainly has a tale to tell, and I’ve been honored to hear a few of them. But each one has been fraught with struggle, and the wounds often go back to childhood. The pain persists however, and hardship often follows them into adulthood.

It’s a domino effect, and before you know it, the street has become home. Nobody wakes up one day and decides to embrace a life of suffering, where every day is a fight for survival.

I was standing outside of Sanctuary when the man lumbered out the front doors with the familiar swerve of inebriation.

“Hey buddy, you know what day it is?” he asked me.

“Thursday,” I replied.

“Thanks man,” he said over his shoulder as he moseyed away.

Days become blurred in this existence, and purpose revolves around the primal necessities…food, clothing and shelter. The pursuit of a fix also makes the priority list for many, sometimes at the expense of the previous three.

Surface Causes

On the surface, it’s easy to point to any number of general causes that may lead someone to find themselves on (or near) the street…addiction, mental illness, abuse, job loss or even a lack of affordable housing. And clearly, these factors often contribute to the physical manifestation of being without a home, but surely it goes deeper.

Many in the Native American community are still struggling for a foothold, on reservations and on the streets of Toronto.

Most recently, the news up here has been saturated with the plight of some members of the First Nation population, particularly in a small community up north called Attawapiskat. They’re living in terrible, “Third-World” conditions, with all the maladies that follow such an existence.

One side blames the government for failing to provide proper subsidized housing. They cite the historical atrocities of the past to support its claims of the services now owed. Another side blames the indigenous people for not picking themselves up by their boot straps. It cites the entitlement mentality for breeding laziness, addiction and abuse. The answer, as is so often the case, probably lies somewhere in the middle.

Deeper Reasons

But in the stories I’ve heard, whether in the news on First Nations or on the streets of Toronto, one word keeps popping into my head, over and over again…brokenness. So many of these folks are broken. So many are the product of brokenness, and it’s a brokenness of the worst kind.

Patrick’s own story illustrates the point. It’s a tale riddled with abuse and addiction, and those elements of his childhood definitely pushed him into a life on the streets of Toronto for a time. He was wounded by the brokenness he experienced. But he’s not alone.

In reality, all of us are broken in some fashion.

Patrick’s story illustrates the early wounds that often begin the downward spiral. He also illustrates the hope that awaits us all.

Folks here in Toronto, however, wear their brokenness on their sleeve – or the scars on their body, or in their bottle, or in the wisps of smoke wafting up from their crack pipe. Their brokenness is easier to spot, and for so many of us, that fact makes it easier to point fingers outward instead of inward.

I know, I know…we have it all together. We have a roof. We have clean undies. We have the internet to read this article. We have food in our bellies, nice clothes on our back. We have a good job, with good pay, and we’re okay.

But we…are…broken. We’ve just been ‘blessed’ with more sophisticated strategies to maintain our façade.

Most of the people I’ve met in the Sanctuary community, however, no longer bother wasting much energy on the façade. They are struggling, and their wounds continue to fester.

Brother from Another Mother

After a recent Sunday-night service, I went with a group from Sanctuary to grab a bite of pizza. As I was standing at the register to pay, my “Canadian cousin” (he deemed me his American cousin) walked through the door. Someone at the church had told him to come up to the pizza shop for some food, and I’m so glad he did.

We sat down and enjoyed some slices, as he apologized periodically for his drunkenness, though I assured him I couldn’t care less. As people started leaving, he began telling me bits and pieces of his story, and it was riddled with violence, struggle, heartbreak, jail, addiction and turmoil. Then he tells me, with tears streaming down his face, that his new probation officer has done more for him in the past few months than his own father ever did. Well, with that, his brokenness finds an anchor point. And my heart yearns…

My Canadian Cousin, “Snake,” has his struggles, but I know I will see him again. And I can’t wait!

Oh, God…thank you for your grace! What are we, mere mortals, to do amid these tales? Amid this broken world of ours? How do we shine the light of that grace into the darkness that reality so often entails? I’m not worthy, as I’m haunted by my own brokenness. But therein lies the blessing. God wants to use us, despite ourselves.

My heart breaks for my friend. But I know I will see him again, whether in this short life, or in the extended version of the Next. And I can’t wait for that reunion.

We, who claim Christ, are broken creatures living in a broken world, and when we finally embrace that fact, the real fun begins. We get to be Christ’s hands and feet here on this earth! And despite the difficulties, what a humble privilege that is! We get to walk arm-in-arm with people who are broken just like we are. We get to drop the façade and discover the common bonds of our humanity.

The world’s system, the world’s priority list gets flipped on its head, and the Kingdom can be experienced here on Earth.

It’s happening here in Toronto, and it’s the first time I’ve experienced it on such a scale. But this Kingdom community is not thriving despite the broken world that surrounds it. It’s thriving amid the brokenness, and these broken pieces are bound together by the blood of Christ.

I’d seen the guy a number of times since my arrival. He was a “First Nation” (Canadian vernacular for Native American) man probably in his 30’s, with a couple of missing teeth and an alcohol problem.

But every time I encountered Carter (name has been changed), he always had a smile on his face, even if he didn’t have the energy to keep his eyes open. He seemed good-natured and always ready for a handshake or a hug from anyone willing to extend either one.

On this particular Sunday evening service here at Sanctuary, I saw Carter sitting in the corner of the room, bent over in his chair and by all appearances, wrestling some inner turmoil. One of the staff members sat next to him, putting his hand on his back and providing needed support.

The service proceeded without much fanfare, but I’d steal glances in their direction periodically. While my time here has been limited, I’d never seen Carter at an actual service before, so I was curious how he was faring and how the Spirit might be moving in him.

Spirit Moves

I know I’ve mentioned it before, but I still struggle to find adequate words to describe the power of the Spirit in this place.

A Bible, written in the Cree language, is opened up to the book of Matthew. First Nation folks here in Canada have an uphill battle on multiple fronts.

During the week, the activities at Sanctuary are generally centered on members of the community who are in need of refuge…the “friends from the streets.” They are given a safe place to come, warm up, eat a hot meal, maybe get a shower and a bit of reprieve from the stresses of the streets. But more importantly, it’s a time to experience some normalcy, to share a meal with friends (and strangers) and to cultivate that ever-important, often-underestimated sense of community.

The weekday activities are generally focused on feeding the mind and body of the population, many of whom don’t show up on Sundays. While the spirit may be fed during the week’s activities, it tends to be far more subtle.

During Sunday evening services, however, the spirit of the community is the focus, and it’s fed in powerful, sustaining ways. With each service, I find myself shedding at least a few tears, most often due to the words of a song, or on this occasion, the power of prayer.

Humble Pleas

Near the end of each service, the floor is opened for anyone who wants to pray, and tonight, I heard a few that cut deep.

The first came after a woman prayed for those with alcohol and drug-abuse problems. Just as she finished, someone started reciting the Serenity Prayer, often heard in Alcoholics Anonymous and other support groups. Before I knew it, two other voices joined in…an unprompted show of solidarity among those with similar struggles, and a poignant illustration of this community – open-armed, interdependent and authentic.

Carter’s hands tell many stories, but his prayer was the first I heard. And it was a story of courage, honesty, humility and strength.

As the prayer time wound down, I suddenly heard a hesitant voice begin to speak about 20 feet to my left. It was gravelly and slurred, but it grew in clarity and passion with each word. My eyes were still closed, so I wasn’t sure who was speaking, but I hung on his every word.

“Father God, I know I haven’t spoke to you in a long time…”

His prayer came straight from the heart, and I was privileged to witness the moment.

“…I know you love me God, but I don’t love myself…”

I’ve said those very words myself, but certainly not in front of an entire congregation. I know who I am. I know the failures that plague my life. I know the upward climb that life entails, and I know how often I falter. I have shared this man’s prayer, but I often reserve those times when no one is around, when God and I can wrestle in seclusion.

The courage this man displayed was extraordinary. He was ripping back the layers and exposing his heart for all to see.

“…help me God…”

His words pierced through me like no prayer I’ve heard before. The grace of God filled that room, and this man was at the epicenter. No “impressive” words were needed…no long-winded eloquence. He spoke with honesty, humility and yearning. Church leaders take note.

With every word of his prayer, my spirit was flooded with that profound sense of God’s grace. I was humbled and inspired by the prayer of this earnest stranger.

Despite the darkness that surrounds it, Sanctuary provides a place for people to experience the light of God.

When I get a taste of the grace and love of Abba – of our Dad… Well, words fail me.

A Stranger No More

The service came to an end, and I just had to find out who had said that prayer. Sure enough, it was Carter who’d been sitting in the far corner throughout the service. Unbeknownst to me, he had moved into the circle of chairs at Sanctuary just before prayer time…reluctant but ready to take his wrestling match to God, with the support of the congregation that surrounded him.

A few days later, I saw him at one of Sanctuary’s midweek activities. With his Sunday-evening prayer still lingering in my soul, I felt compelled to go talk to him and tell him the same, though this would be my first conversation with the guy.

He was staggering a bit and likely inebriated in some fashion, but I’ve been there too and didn’t much care. As soon as I came up to him, he gave me a quick (though slightly confused) hug and extended a hand to me – a stranger. He didn’t let go until I finished.

I spoke of his inspiring courage, and I spoke of the power in his words. I spoke of my humble privilege to be a witness. I spoke of God’s overwhelming grace, and I told him that he had given me a taste of that grace Sunday night.

His gaze became more focused as I spoke. Finally, he looked me in the eyes, and still grasping my hand, he said in a hushed voice.

“Man, I was scared bro’! But thanks…”

No Carter, thank you brother.

So I’ve been sleeping in the back of my truck for about two weeks now…car camping, as some might call it. I’ve always enjoyed sleeping outdoors, but car camping in the urban jungle of Toronto is a journey all its own.

The weather here has been getting colder, and I’ve awoken to a layer of ice on my truck more than once…an invigorating way to start the day after crawling out of my cozy mummy bag. Not to mention brushing my teeth with near-frozen toothpaste.

I was recently offered both a roof and a couch, which I was happy to hear, and I’ll be couch surfing soon enough. But for the time being, I’m inclined to battle the elements, for a couple of reasons.

Gloves, hat and long johns – my nightly bedfellows

On one hand, I’m a country boy who just likes roughin’ it once in awhile. I enjoy a bit of deprivation on occasion (though often in hindsight), and I find that ‘living without’ is also a good reminder of the many blessings I have in life.

But the primary reason I’ve been car camping is that I wanted to experience a small taste of the impermanence that homelessness often entails, not to mention the same general weather conditions. That said, let me be the first to say my sleeping-under-the-camper-shell-of-my-truck conditions are nowhere near those of folks on the street. But Canada in December is nothing to scoff at either.

Despite the leaks, the cold and general discomfort, I’m grateful for the camper shell on my truck.

New Insights

Tucked between tall buildings in a northern corner of downtown Toronto, Sanctuary is composed of a community that runs the gamut of socioeconomic levels. During a typical Sunday night service, congregation members may be affluent business people who return to their condos at the end of the evening, or they may be homeless folks who return to the streets in search of a quiet corner to catch some fitful sleep.

During the week, however, the programs and activities offered by Sanctuary are frequented most by the “friends from the streets” (as Sanctuary prefers to call them). These folks make up the heart of the community, and they embody the very intentional mission of the church.

When it’s rainy, I have to grab a stack of newspapers to line my bed and soak up the pooling water.

So my car-camping excursion is the closest thing I could manage (thus far) to parallel the nomadic, transitory lifestyle that comes with homelessness, and it’s been giving me a couple of insights into the issues that plague those friends on the street.

The Old Normal

In ‘normal’ life, I don’t often need to take the basic necessities of life into account. I don’t need to strategize my bathroom visits (or showers for that matter), feeling obligated to purchase some random food item at some nameless fast-food joint just to use their facilities. And I don’t need to map out the free places around town to do the same, whether it’s the library, mall or city park.

I don’t need to think about the weather’s very direct effect on my daily and nightly routines. I don’t need to worry whether my coat will repel the falling rain for hours on end, or if my shoes will do the same. I don’t need to worry about grabbing a stack of free newspapers to put in my truck before I go to bed, since they work best to soak up the water that pools in the back when rain falls.

I don’t need to wrack my brain for pursuits to fill my time. When all else fails, the TV remote is always an arm’s reach away.

For the past few weeks, however, I have not enjoyed the normal luxuries of life. And truth be told, it’s become burdensome.

Day or night, parking enforcement is on the lookout.

The New Normal

While the activities of Sanctuary are many on a weekly basis, I often find that I have hours to kill during the in-between times. Without a place to call my home, with no ‘home base’ to return to,  I sometimes find myself wandering the streets feeling like an aimless drifter, with no one to see, nowhere to be and nothing to do (yes, I do have articles to write, but it can’t be nonstop). I have no location where I can walk through the front door, put my feet up and take a deep sigh of rest and relaxation. There’s a persistent, underlying feeling of restlessness.

And each night, the quest for my own quiet corner begins anew. Yet even then, when I’m bundled up in my sleeping bag in the back of my truck, ready for another night’s sleep, there’s an ever-present sense of guardedness. I must be vigilant. I must be on the lookout for police, shady characters or any number of other possible scenarios. Situational awareness is a constant, and it’s taxing.

My primary mode of transportation throughout the day, and night.

The result is an inherent lethargy much of the time. My mind grows tired from the perpetual vigilance, my steps are often drained of purpose and my stomach is groaning to get filled. I feel weary – mind, body and spirit.

And at night, when the freezing rain is falling and I’m dodging the drips that are dropping and the puddles that are pooling in my leaky truck bed, well, it’s all become quite exasperating.

And then I’m reminded why I’m doing this. And I’m reminded how blessed I am that I’m warm, that I’ve had food that day, that my body is able to carry me around this city, that I have a vehicle to go to and most of all, that this is not home. This experience is temporary, but for so many, it’s a daily existence. Then those days turn into weeks, and the weeks into months and the months into years.

How blessed I truly am!

Last week, I hopped a bus out of Amman to the town of Salt in search of the Holy Land Institute for the Deaf. All I knew about the school fit into a few email exchanges between myself and a volunteer teacher from the U.S. named Brent, but it was enough to make me curious.

Upon arriving in Salt, I trekked up a hill and repeated what I could remember of the school title to people I passed, trying to find this place. Fortunately, the town is relatively small, and this school has a big enough reputation that people knew exactly what I was looking for.

Wafa and her student Morhaf

A Different Perception

Since arriving in Jordan, I’ve learned a bit about the local educations system. Unfortunately, it does little for students with disabilities, save the ones whose families can pay for private schools.

But the Holy Land Institute is different.

The Holy Land Institute for the Deaf houses over 150 students and is the largest school of its kind in the Middle East. In local culture, disabilities such as deafness have often been ignored and hidden away because they are “shameful,” but places like the Holy Land Institute are working to change this perception and educate children living with disability despite their income level.

Meet Mohammed

One of the dedicated staff helping make this possible is Brent, a one-year volunteer teacher from the Mennonite Central Committee who came to Jordan two years ago.

Brent and Mohammed talking as Mohammed types brail

Obviously, his plans have changed. After beginning his service, Brent decided to stay an extra two years to continue working as a teacher at the school—more specifically, to teach one very special student named Mohammed.

I met Brent in the school courtyard where we were quickly joined by 18 year-old Mohammed who found his way down the stairs and across the courtyard to meet us. This may not sound like a major accomplishment, but Mohammed’s circumstances are different than an average teenager’s: he’s blind and deaf.

Capable

Mohammed approached us and placed his hand on Brent’s, who first made the sign to identify himself and then explained they had a guest who is a woman. Mohammed reached his hand for mine, acknowledged me, then turned back for the classroom.

Brent and I followed him across the school and up the stairs to his classroom where he sat, ready for his next activity. I watched in amazement as Brent signed, Mohammed’s hands on his own hands enabling him to follow along. Eventually, Mohammed stood up, walked to the front of the room and began to search an empty bookshelf with his hands.

The Calendar box

“Oh, he’s not going to like this,” said Brent, “he said he wanted to Braille, so I told him to find the Brailler [a Braille typewriter], but it’s not where it should be.”

After searching the empty shelf, Mohammed turned and left the classroom. Part of me wanted to follow him to assist, but Brent seemed nonplused by the situation and stayed seated. I followed his lead. Within minutes, Mohammed returned with the Brailler in hand.

With Patience

Every interaction between Mohammed and Brent impressed me. Despite his circumstances, Mohammed can communicate emotions, type Braille, find his way around school and converse with others. Obviously, he’s had some seriously dedicated and patient help along the way.

“How does anyone who’s blind and deaf even begin to communicate?” I asked Brent, still trying to wrap my head around everything I was seeing.

Manal and her student Rahmeh

“I can show you,” he said.

We walked into the classroom set aside for deaf-blind education where a seven other students like Mohammed learn from individual teachers. Brent walked me to a table with a long, rectangular box separated into compartments, each holding a different object. He introduced it as the calendar system.

Each object represents an activity in the schedule (for example, a spoon means lunch). A child who is new to the program feels the object associated with the upcoming activity every day before the activity itself until the association is made. After a child makes an association between an object and an activity, they receive a sign.

And after years of diligence and patience, they may achieve the level of communication that Mohammed has.

Building a Bridge

The road is certainly a long one. Wafa, another teacher in the deaf-blind program introduced me to her four-year-old student Morhaf who was banging a plastic cup against his highchair tray.

“Right now, he thinks this is a toy,” Wafa told me through a sigh, pouring a little water in the cup from a water bottle, “but one day, he’ll understand that it’s for water and for drinking.”

Morhaf turned over the cup, adding another puddle to his tray. Wafa just smiled and shrugged her shoulders, prepping for another try. All of the teachers I met possessed the same patience and love for their students. They each work day in and day out for the betterment of one single child, building a bridge of communication into a person who would otherwise be cut off.

No Shame

Mohammed is one of many students served by the people of the Holy Land Institute. The school meets the needs of countless students who need a little extra accommodation in order to learn and develop important job skills. Students at the Holy Land Institute learn multiple subjects, eat in a cafeteria and enjoy recess like at any other school. In addition, they learn marketable skills like weaving and construction.

One of the students of the Holy Land Institute learning to sew

And most importantly, the school only charges a family what the family can afford to educate their child. This flexible payment system contrasts sharply with the often unaffordable government schools for children with disabilities in Jordan. The school relies on outside support and sponsorship to subsidize the price of boarding and educating their beloved students.

The Holy Land Institute represents more than education in Jordan—it represents a change in perspective and attitude towards disability. The school both nurtures and challenges its pupils in order to send them out into the world as autonomous adults.

Students of the Holy Land Institute are taught that there is no shame in disability. And hopefully, their presence in their communities in the future will show others as well.

This is Part II of my article about the Holy Land Trust.

Click here to read Part I.

I entered the office of Holy Land Trust in Bethlehem with apprehension. A “nonviolent empowerment” movement sounds beautiful in theory, but I had no idea what the practical steps towards peace look like amidst such an old, complex conflict as that which exists in the Holy Land.

I followed my friend through the office to a meeting room covered with bright rugs and walls holding banners and posters promoting peace. We crept into the room, trying not to disturb the meeting taking place between Sami Awad, Holy Land Trust director, and a group of visiting pastors.

The History

Sami’s presence in front of the group was calm and reassuring. He talked with the humble wisdom of someone who’s experienced years of trials but is quietly determined. Sami explained the recent history of the conflict and its effect on his family, beginning with his grandmother being displaced from her land in the forties.

As he explained, I was struck by the details of the injustices endured by Sami’s family, but I was more struck by Sami’s attitude. Sami did not share any words of anger or resentment—instead, he shared a message of hope in a more peaceful future for Palestinians and Israelis.

The beautiful view from Daher’s home.

Sami’s beliefs helped create the organization—or movement—of Holy Land Trust in 1998. The vision and work of the organization bring delegations of people from around the world to learn about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and to learn more about what it means to resist injustice peacefully.

Lucky for me, I had stumbled upon one of these days of building international witness.

Visiting Daher

After the meeting, I followed Sami as he escorted a group of Swiss visitors out to visit Daher, a West Bank resident. Holy Land Trust often hosts visitors as a part of building international understanding about the situation in the West Bank and the Holy Land in general.

We piled into a van that drove out of Bethlehem and into the countryside. Our van climbed to the top of a hill, overlooking a quiet and stunning valley. This was the home of Daher—it has been his family’s home for generations.

Daher at his home in the West Bank.

Daher’s home is simple, surrounded by a greenhouse, cultivated fields, olive trees, small furnished caves and classrooms that host youth summer programs. We followed Daher around his land as he pointed out each feature with pride—the view, the caves, the new electricity. Daher’s open demeanor and beautiful home charmed me instantly. But underneath the placid surface, Daher’s home is the place of much controversy.

Disputed Land

Years ago, Israeli settlers began the process of seizing Daher’s land from him—and he is certainly not alone. Many Palestinians in the area have lost their homes to settlers in the fierce struggle for land rights in the Holy Land. Despite the efforts of many Israeli citizens to promote peace and move forward from past injustices, some are continuing to seize land and homes from Palestinians.

I had trouble swallowing the stark injustice of his tale. Daher has been struggling for months and months in court in order to prove that his family has the rights to his land. He has been fortunate to receive international and local support for his case and presented his story diligently in a local court until the case was moved to the high court in Jerusalem, a place where Daher cannot enter without a permit.

No permit has been issued for Daher.

His lawyer continues to represent him in Jerusalem, and Holy Land Trust continues to share his story with others. The goal is not to incite them and create more anger, but instead to draw support in resisting further injustice and healing old wounds.

Sami in one of the caves on Daher’s land.

Be At Peace

The group and I left Holy Land Trust with a deep concern and respect for Daher and deeper understanding of the conflict at present, but that’s just the tip of what the organization does. They are actively involved in local media programs, nonviolence training, leadership development and travel and encounter programs—an opportunity for anyone to spend a summer living with a Palestinian family in the West Bank to better understand what’s going on.

Anyone is welcome to support the work of Holy Land Trust, or to visit the work of Holy Land Trust, but what’s the most important thing we can do?

“Live in peace,” my undercover Israeli friend told me. “The barrier between Israel and Palestine isn’t some problem unique to this region—it’s a manifestation of the state of humanity.”

Even amongst controversy, Holy Land Trust is dedicated to peacefully resisting injustice.

Live in peace. It’s a much more involved request than donating money or even making a visit. Even the employees of Holy Land Trust participate in daily meditation and weekly relaxation sessions to be at peace themselves. (I participated in one of these office relaxation and sharing sessions during my visit—it’s how everyone should start their day!)

The process of peace and reconciliation may involve fair policy and public apologies, but the real healing takes place on the individual level. It takes place by following the examples of patience, compassion and forgiveness given to us by Jesus.

Above all, achieving true peace—not just the absence of violence—takes individuals who are compassionate, forgiving and gracious themselves to lead the movement. I am grateful for Holy Land Trust and the people there who remind me how powerful of a force peace truly is.

I pressed the pay phone closer and closer to my ear, trying to make out the instructions through the background noise and an Israeli accent.

“I’m sorry, meet you where?”

“Manger Plaza. People will tell you how to get there,” he assured me.

“Ok….ahh! Hold on.” I dropped two more Sheckles into the plastic phone cradle, tucked underneath candy and gum cluttered all over the shop counter. It was the first place I saw with a phone after getting off the bus in Bethlehem.

“Manger Plaza? Like, THE manger? Of course. I’ll be there soon. Inshallah.”

The Holy Land is home to some of the world’s oldest and most holy places in Judaism, Christianity and Islam.

Not a bad spot for a meeting! I crossed into Bethlehem—the West Bank—to meet with the friend of a friend from back in Arizona. Sounds harmless enough, but politics added a layer of intrigue to the situation: he is an Israeli citizen in living in Bethlehem. In other words, he was breaking the law.

Covert Meeting

Confused? So was I. If Bethlehem is in the West Bank, and the West Bank is in Israel, than why would it be illegal for an Israeli citizen to be there?

Holy Land Trust staff hard at work in the office.

Explaining the situation would take a book, and I know only the basics (you can get a good overview by reading Barry’s articles from Musalaha). But in short, the West Bank is a large territory of the Palestinian people within the Holy Land. Some Israelis live in parts of the West Bank, but areas like Bethlehem are under complete Palestinian authority, and Israelis are not allowed in by law.

Sounds like all the more reason to meet this guy.

I walked down the street asking the occasional stranger about the direction of Manger Plaza, but we had some lapses in communication. I even tried in a variety of accents. Finally, I resigned to desperately asking, “Jesus? This way? Jesus?”

It worked. Ten minutes later, I was standing in front of the towering stone Church of the Nativity, built on the ground believed to be the birthplace of Jesus Christ. I slowed down, soaking in the significance of the place, and simultaneously regretting not saying, “By the way, I’m wearing a blue plaid shirt,” during that phone call. This place was packed.

I looked around, made lingering eye contact with a few strangers until a guy with a baseball cap with Arabic script walked up and hesitantly said, “Can I ask you a question?…Are you Laura?”

The Land

We chatted for a couple of minutes about my trip so far, the mutual friend who connected us and a little about what I do. Upon hearing more about World Next Door, my new undercover friend lit up.

The sitting room of Holy Land Trust.

“You know, my boss at the place I’m volunteering is a big time follower of Jesus. We’re working on nonviolent resistance and reconciliation efforts. He said you could come by, if you wanted. He’s explaining our work to some people right now…or if you want to take some time walking around the church, you can come later….”

I took another look at the Church of the Nativity, then back at my friend. Given the choice between sacred places and the living work of Jesus, it was an easy decision.

“Let’s go!”

As we made our way to the office, he explained more about his situation. He is passionate about reconciliation in the Holy Land, and he’s in the process of starting an organization to connect Israelis and Palestinians over a common concern: the land itself.

He and others are creating a permaculture project where people can come learn about living in harmony with the land—conserving water, utilizing solar energy and growing food responsibly. But most unique is that the project is located on politically neutral ground, on a place within the West Bank where both Israelis and Palestinians are free to go. It’s a place of connection. It’s a place where relationships between “adversaries” begin or continue from previous meetings.

But for now, he is in Bethlehem—illegally—for the opportunity to learn from others working towards similar goals of reconciliation.

Peace Above All

Bethlehem is home to another important rung of the ladder to peace in the Holy Land, an organization called Holy Land Trust. Holy Land Trust works for the empowerment of the Palestinian community through community outreach, encounter programs, leadership training and more.

A mural to celebrate peaceful relations between Israeli and Palestinian people.

Most importantly, they are committed to non-violence.

“Non-violence” doesn’t exactly jump to mind when I envision the Holy Land. The news channels and newspapers feed the outside world a constant stream of violent reports—bombings, deaths, weapons and general unrest. It doesn’t seem like any other course of action gets you much attention in these parts.

But Holy Land Trust pursues peace with the only option they see as possible: peace itself.

“We don’t want ‘no war,’” my friend explained, “We want peace. Just because you don’t have violence doesn’t mean you have peace.”

This guy knows the value of reconciliation, so much that he’s willing to cross boundaries to work towards those ends. And after

seeing Holy Land Trust in action, I can understand why…

Click here to read Part II…

This is Part II of an article about Patrick.

To read Part I, click here.

 ———

As Patrick’s story continued to unfold, my heart ached with pain, though it was not my own.

How can someone go through so much agony and suffering, yet still be able to smile, regardless of the time that’s passed?! Hell is not otherworldly. It’s endured by countless lives every day. Patrick has lived it, and he’s come through the fire far stronger as a result.

“I think it was St. Augustine who said, ‘God will allow evil in so much as it can be turned into good,’” Patrick told me recently.

I struggle with that quote. I struggle with the abhorrent realities people are forced to bear. But one thing I do know, the grace that God extends to them is beyond measure, even if they’re unaware.

When Jesus is hanging on the cross, some of his last words provided forgiveness and grace to the oblivious. Marinate on that one.

But Patrick…Patrick has experienced it. He’s far from oblivious.

Words do no justice to the grace found here!

“I’m the opposite of Job. I went through hell to gain my faith, and there’s nothing that can take it away.”

From the Streets to the Hallways

Following his harrowing encounter in the warehouse, Patrick spent nearly six more years on the streets, hustling and surviving. But by the age of 18, he’d had enough and decided to go live with his mom, who was now separated from his father and living sober.

Soon after, he enrolled in high school as a freshman and graduated at 25.

About this time, he felt compelled to start educating others about life for the marginalized, but he also knew if he wanted to have a greater impact, he’d have to play the game of life.

“I went in to apply at the university, and they asked me, ‘Why do you want to study here?’ So I was honest with them. I said, ‘Cuz I need this stupid piece of paper to get a real job doing what I’m already doing.’”

He was accepted, and after a few years, he earned his degree in the community worker program. He went back to his advocacy work with diploma in hand.

God was with him and using him, but that Truth wasn’t yet real to Patrick.

The AIDS Memorial, located in a downtown park, is a stop on Patrick’s “street walks” where he underscores the plight of those affected and those who’ve died from the illness.

Revelations

“I was raised in a Catholic family, but my grandma used to take me to a Baptist church,” he recalled.

“When I used to work on the streets, I’d sing Amazing Grace to myself as I waited on customers,” he remembers, tearing up with the bittersweet memory. “And when I got stabbed, I remember standing outside the hospital, holding my guts in and praying, ‘God, what do you want with me?! Why don’t you just take me now?’

“It took me years to get my answer,” and Sanctuary played a pivotal role.

“I always thought leaders in ministry are holy and didn’t do anything wrong. But Greg [Paul, Sanctuary’s pastor] was the first person ever to tell me that it’s okay to be broken and still know God.”

Patrick’s heart was beginning to soften. And in 1999, at a Christmas Arts Extravaganza at Sanctuary, his ears were finally opened to the divine Whisper that had been calling him for years.

“I left Sanctuary, went to my sacred spot in Boys Town, and I cried for eight hours. And after the last tear fell, I heard God say, ‘Now you’re mine!’

“And that was it!”

My spine is tingling after writing those words. And I’m trying to see the computer screen through misty eyes. Oh, the power of grace and love!

Always Present

For nearly 25 years now, Patrick’s been working with the marginalized of society, and nowadays, he’s running his own organization, Bridges for Youth 2, a “social justice education” program. He guides ‘street walks’ not only to teenagers but also to church groups, teachers and even police trainees.

Sanctuary played a crucial role in Patrick’s spiritual journey.

Since his conversion in ‘99, he’s been incorporating God into those walks, but he can also look back and see God in his own life story as well.

“I was born two-and-a-half months premature and should have died. When I got older [and started taking pills], I’d have doctors and nurses tell me, ‘Stop, you’re going to die.’ When I was on the streets, I’d have police and judges tell me, ‘Stop, you’re going to die.’

“But even after all I’ve been through, you know what? I didn’t die. I look back and see all the things God has brought me through and I see all these steps and little signs, and I can point to them and say,

“That’s God, that’s God, that’s God…”

I love those moments of life, however infrequent they may be. Those hindsight confirmations of God’s presence are sustenance to my soul. And I move forward with a strengthened faith.

Patrick Sullivan – shining God’s grace and love into lives dismissed by most.

Messy Love

Patrick is my favorite kind of person. He’s honest, witty, open and wise. But he’s broken too, and his journey isn’t over. He’s the first to admit the struggle continues. But what a refreshing change that is!

There’s no need to pretend with him. There’s no need to sugarcoat and cover up, doing all I can to put my best foot forward. I can be me…good, bad and ugly. Anything I tell him will be met with grace (and occasional admonishment). But I know he’ll love me anyway, regardless of my own failings.

Read back through that previous paragraph. After typing it, I just read it again and was struck by the description, for it mirrors my relationship with Christ…

I’ve been out walking around Toronto with Patrick a few times now, and it seems like everywhere we go, we’re getting stopped by “friends from the street.” They gravitate to him, and seek his attention. They clearly love him, and he’s not opposed.

“There’s something special about being embraced and loved by a whole bunch of messy people.”

And he loves them too, giving them a taste of Christ’s grace, whether they know it or not.