But, as always, it is the people behind JVP – the global partners and local champions – who have impressed me more than the projects.  And it’s their faith and perseverance that are making this transformation possible.  To read more about what’s been happening in Kager, take a look at these stories.

Joining the Jubilee!

While Barry and the interns prepare for a summer in Ukraine, I’m preparing for my second trip to Kenya. There’s a lot to look forward to!
Click here to read this article…

Traveling by Your Taste Buds

If you ever find yourself wondering where you are in the world, just look at your plate!
Click here to read this article…

The Village

In such a small, tightly-knit community, I didn’t have to look far to see that Kager is a special place!
Click here to read this article…

Photo Gallery: Dream Come True

For the first time ever, Kager’s dream to open a secondary school is finally a reality.

Click here to see this photo gallery…

Determined

A glimpse into the lives of two students poised to make a difference in their village…

Click here to read this article…

Culture Guide: Farming Like a Kenyan

See how a city girl got her hands… and feet… dirty.

Click here to read this article…

A New Leaf

Who would have thought that onions could change a life in Kager?

Click here to read this article…

JOY in the Kitchen

Why a kitchen in Kager might be one of the most exciting places around.

Click here to read this article…

In David’s Words

Time for a chat with Apostle Dave!

Click here to read this article…

Now for a closer look at what life is like as student in Kager, and to realize the impact of Jubilee Village Project’s work here, I’d like to introduce you to two of my new friends who are determined to complete their education.

Iris having fun at home before going back to school to begin her second trimester.

Iris came bounding into my room the day I arrived, slid into the space next to where I was seated on the bed, and started asking questions – it was clear she wanted to get to know me, and that she was a big fan of JVP.  It was just one of several conversations we had that week.

3rd graders at the primary school Mary attended before high school.

Turns out Iris is one of 3 students who is attending a regional high school because of a JVP scholarship.  Before Kager opened God Kado Secondary School, the only available option for her was a private school in a town over an hour’s walk away.  Besides being inconvenient, the isolated road isn’t safe for vulnerable young girls.

But in Iris’s case, the biggest deterrent to pursuing further education, and a chance at a paying job, was lack of tuition money.  Primary education in Kenya is free (after paying for required school uniforms and textbooks) but secondary school isn’t.  With an elderly and sick father, her family wasn’t able to keep the four oldest boys in high school, even though their grades and ambitions were high.

So you can imagine how life-changing the JVP scholarship was for Iris.  Because she earned the highest national exam score out of all the 8^th grade students in Kager, Iris is now attending a nearby girls’ boarding school – free of charge and free to pursue her dreams.  Her goal is both simple and ground-breaking: to be one of the only girls in Kager to graduate from secondary school, and to study law at a national university.  The door is now wide open!

Mary looking very “smart” (aka “proper” in Kenyan terms) in her secondary school uniform.

Just this week I made another friend named Mary.  Mary is one of the pioneering first-year students at Kager’s own God Kado Secondary School.  She is one of six kids, and the first girl to make it past 8^th grade.  Her brothers managed to walk to the distant private school, but her older sister never made it.

When I talked with Mary on her morning break from classes, she told me that paying school fees is also a problem for her family since her mother is the only parent in the home.  If God Kado hadn’t opened the year after she finished primary school, she would probably have waited a few years at home to see whether or not their family and friends could pull together the necessary money for her to go somewhere else.

Thankfully, Mary’s not waiting at home.  In fact, she’s hardly there.  School lasts from 7am until 5pm, which is when she begins her 45 minute walk home to the other side of the village.  After dinner, she begins homework as long as there is kerosene in the house for the lamp.  If they don’t have 10 shillings (13 U.S. cents) for the fuel that night, she’ll get up extra early to finish the assignment before school.

That is what I call dedication.  For both Iris and Mary, the chance to stay in school is the ultimate gift, and they aren’t taking it for granted!

That has never been more true than here in Kibera. Hanging out with some of the kids in this slum has been amazingly eye-opening. In just the few weeks that I’ve been here, they’ve taught me a lot about the world.

Hopefully you’ll enjoy these lessons I’ve learned from the kids in Kibera…

Lesson 1: All boys do dumb things…

Boys are foolish. That’s pretty much a rule of nature. To a boy, a stick is not just a stick. It’s a sword. Furniture is not just furniture. It’s something to jump off of. To a boy, even seemingly harmless things like pillows can be turned into objects of destruction.

Clearly up to no good... And just WHAT is that in your mouth, young man?

In fact, I’ve discovered that this “rule” seems to transcend cultures. Boys here in Kibera tend to be just as foolish as boys in suburban America. Somehow, they hit each other a lot, fall down a lot, bleed a lot, and still manage to make it through boy-hood relatively unscathed.

They put gross things in their mouths, they yell a lot and seem to be completely unaware of just how filthy their clothes are. Does that sound familiar?

Boys. Doesn’t matter where they are, they are all essentially the same…

Lesson 2: Fun doesn’t cost a thing…

As I’ve watched kids playing in Kibera, I have been struck with an interesting fact. They don’t have Playstations, trampolines, or Super Soakers, but these kids still know how to have fun.

Kids in Kibera always seem to be content playing with what they have.

Without the money to buy a real soccer ball, boys kick around rolled up balls of plastic bags. Toddlers pull around toy cars made out of old cereal boxes and wire. Girls play with dolls made out of old rags.

But they don’t sit crying in the dust wishing for newer or better toys. They laugh and sing and play, without (it seems) a care in the world. In fact, it’s hard to find a place on the planet where there are more smiles per capita than in the middle of a group of slum children.

For someone like me, it’s hard to believe that this is even possible. It’s a breeze for me to drop $60 on a new video game or $100 on a few rounds of paintball. When I played outside with my friends growing up, we used plastic light sabers, remote control cars and Nerf guns. When something broke (or ran out of batteries!), we’d just buy a new one.

I know we’ve all heard the phrase, “money can’t buy happiness,” but I know that I tend to live like it can.

Maybe these Kibera kids know something that we don’t.

Maybe fun really doesn’t cost a thing!

Lesson 3: Mzungus are strange, strange people…

As we’ve mentioned before, being white in Kibera definitely makes you stand out. Kids see you and start yelling “How are you?” from a mile away. But the more time I’ve spent with kids here, the more I’ve been able to see myself from their perspective. And let’s face it. I am weird.

When an mzungu is in the neighborhood, ALL the kids want to say hello!

First of all, my arms are covered in some strange hair. It takes just about all the willpower they can muster for kids not to simply rub my forearms for hours. Most don’t have the emotional fortitude to stop themselves (Of course, only a few have been brave enough to touch my mystical locks of curly hair…).

Second, I am always carrying around a backpack. Why do I always have it with me? What is in it? What exotic mysteries does that magical bag hold?

Third, I have some strange grooming habits. In the morning, I douse my face and head with cold water and put some odd cream in my hair. Am I trying to catch a cold? At night, I go to bathe with a big bag of toiletries under my arm. What’s wrong with a simple bar of soap? And why, when I brush my teeth, do I carry around a bottle of water? What’s wrong with the normal water?

Finally, I wear slippers (flip-flops) everywhere. That is strange. Why would someone who can pay to fly half-way around the world walk around in footwear reserved for those who can’t afford shoes?

When you look at it from their perspective, we mzungus really are weird!

Lesson 4: School isn’t a burden, it’s an privilege…

A group of children head off to school in the morning...

I have been consistently blown away by the attitudes of school children in Kibera. They are dedicated and studious like nothing I’ve ever seen. They dive into homework, study for tests and lug their books to school and back every day without ever complaining!

I remember how I was back in school and it was a burden. I mean, dragging myself out of bed every morning, agonizing over homework and sitting in boring classes for hours, daydreaming about what I’d do when the final bell rang…

If I had had a choice, I would have gladly sat at home all day playing video games (good thing I didn’t!). Not going to lie, sometimes I even looked forward to getting sick because it meant I could stay home! But these kids in the slums wouldn’t dream of missing school.

It’s not hard to understand why.

First of all, their parents (many of whom never had a formal education) spend a significant portion of their income on school fees and uniforms. Many of these dedicated fathers and mothers work 12 hour days 7 days a week to send their kids to school. “Maybe, just maybe,” they think, “my son or daughter will be able to go to university and get out of the slum for good!”

A good education is the only way to break the cycle of poverty.

What kid would want to squander their parent’s sacrifice?

Second, in a shame-based culture like this one, skipping school would dishonor not only the child, but the child’s family, the child’s clan and even the child’s neighborhood community! They don’t make the decision to study simply because they feel guilty about it. They do it because they must.

Finally, I think the kids here understand (even at a subconscious level) that what they are studying is important. When they see me walking down the street, they come running to practice all the English they know. When you ask them what they want to be when they grow up, they don’t hold back.

“I am going to be a doctor!”

“I am going to be a pilot!”

“I am going to be a teacher!”

They know why they are going to school, and it is a privilege.

Lesson 5: A smile goes a long way…

I have to say. Of all the lessons I’ve learned from the kids here in Kibera, the most important one is this. Smiles break down all sorts of walls!

When kids come running to stare at me, a big smile is all it takes to get them giggling. When a very small child is staring at me with horrified disbelief (not an uncommon occurrence here), my smile usually soothes their fears.

And when I’m the one having a bad day, the simple, beautiful smile of a child is just what I need to make things right again…

————-

Thanks, kids. You’ve taught me a lot!

Check out my captions for the whole story!

Ever since I decided to stay in Kibera slum, I’ve looked forward to experiencing what the place is like at night. Many mzungus (white folks) have been in and out during the day, but because of fear, ignorance or perhaps, I don’t know… sanity?, they leave before the sun goes down.

I have now stayed in Kibera for four nights, and what I’ve already learned is blowing me away.

No such thing as peace…

One of the first things I’ve noticed during the night in Kibera is the sound. It never stops. Lying in bed writing this, I can hear my neighbor laughing and chatting in Swahili, a baby crying a few doors down and a train chugging past. KTN (Kenya Television Network) is blaring on some tiny TV somewhere and dishes are being put away after dinner.

I can hear it all, because there is a gap between the roof and the top of my wall. One of the windows of my room is just a hole stuffed full of cardboard. My ceiling is a thin sheet of corrugated metal.

And this “house” is one of the nicer ones.

In Kibera, a few square miles that is home to over 1,000,000 inhabitants (yes, million), there is always noise somewhere. Even in the dead of night.

No such thing as space…

Pastor Fred and his family in their two room home. You can't tell in the picture, but my back is against the wall. That room is IT.

Obviously, when cramming millions of people into a tiny area, space is at a premium. In the evening, when most families close themselves in for the night, everyone gathers in their tiny one or two room shacks. There is no way to find any sort of “alone time” other than in the dark and smelly outhouses, (and even there you can hear every sound made by the person in the next stall!).

My host family’s baby is just getting over some sort of illness. As a result, he has been cranky and temperamental. When he is not getting his way, his cries and shrieks practically shake the room.

And as much as I would like to just leave when he’s fussy, the fact remains… I can’t. I am stuck in the 10 foot by 15 foot room with the baby and the rest of the family watching reruns of America’s Next Top Model on their 10 inch TV.

No such thing as reliability…

Eating dinner by the light of a lantern. A common occurance in Kibera.

Electricity in Kibera is fickle (That is, even more fickle than in the rest of Nairobi!).

If it doesn’t rain enough, the hydroelectric dams don’t work and the power goes out. If it rains too much, power lines fall and the power goes out. If too many people tap into the lines illegally, the power goes out.

Since arriving on Friday night, we’ve already had two whole days without power.

It’s funny. I remember being practically paralyzed when the power went out at my apartment back in the States last year. “But without electricity, how will I check my email? Take a hot shower?? Cook my food???”

Looking back I see that perhaps I may have been taking electricity a bit for granted. I mean, in a place like Kibera, you never know if the current blackout will last two minutes or two days. It’s definitely forcing me to change my perspective on things.

Unexpected Victims

These 16 year old girls have little chance of finishing their education if they are unable to study at night.

So looking at what I’ve written above, it’s pretty obvious that Kibera is uncomfortable. Not exactly a relaxing place. But what I’ve discovered is that what is uncomfortable for me is debilitating for another group of residents here.

That group? Students.

Skim back at the “inconveniences” above. Now imagine trying to study for an exam or write a paper in conditions like those.

Imagine trying to read your homework assignment while your little brother and his friends run around screaming just outside. Imagine trying to memorize multiplication tables five feet away from a blaring TV. Imagine sharing your family’s one lantern with everyone else while you prepare for a speech tomorrow.

The fact is, even those students lucky enough to actually go to school are facing an uphill battle when it comes to their studies. For many, their homework goes unfinished, their papers go unwritten and their test scores fall and fall.

When Pastor Fred explained all of this to me, I was shocked. I honestly never would have thought about the lack of quiet, space and reliable electricity as contributing factors to poor education in the slums.

A simple solution…

That is why I was thrilled when he took me to visit a pilot project that Tumaini is working on with two other churches in Kibera… after-school study clubs.

The study group at St. Jerome Church in Kibera. Not a very exciting picture. But that's the point.

Every evening, the churches open their doors to students from many different primary and secondary schools in the area. The church buildings are well lit, relatively spacious and best of all, quiet. In one room they have two whole bookshelves full of textbooks for the students to borrow (saving each student’s family a lot of money).

After arriving at the church, Pastor Fred and I watched a bunch of students studying, reading and writing. As we sat there, my heart was filled with hope. These kids were being given a chance that many in the slum will never have. All because of a few light bulbs and a quiet building.

Yet again I am floored by what God is doing here. A handful of simple Christ followers are taking what little they have to provide for the next generation.

Because of their sacrifice, these students are getting a chance to make it in school, a chance to go on to higher education and a chance to get out of the slum for good. Wow.

And to think… all of this goes on after the sun goes down.

———————–

Walking around the trails of the bush, I always carried with me the fancy title of “Women’s Advocacy Intern”. Really, it was all in my head, considering the Malawian women had no idea what a white, North American 20-something was doing on their front porch until I visited with them and explained.

I would turn to my translator, Mayi Kachingwe, signaling that I needed her to translate, and would slowly begin, fumbling around with a proper introduction.

“Hello.”

Pause.

“My name is Maeven and I have come from the United States…”

Pause.

“I have come because I have a special interest in Malawian women. I see how hard you work…”

Pause.

“…and how much you love your family. I am encouraged by your strength and faithfulness to provide every day for your husband and children…”

Pause.

“…I have seen you in your gardens. I have seen you at the watering hole with your buckets.”

Pause.

“ You work so hard and are so valuable to your village.”

Pause.

“Do you know that?”

Malawian women with their families.

At this point, almost every woman would look toward the ground, staring at the mat below her like it was the first time she saw it. A few would try their best to suppress shy smiles.

It was during these times of meeting and interviewing women that I woke up in a way.

In the midst of the most isolating bouts of culture shock, when every part of my being had turned inward and self-focused, the words and stories of these women never failed to stretch my heart, and turn me inside out.

I remember one such instance:

The red dust plastered my feet as we walked toward the village where Violet lived. I trailed loosely behind Abusa Mwachipa (my resident translator/ pastor/ Malawian grandpa).

And by “trailed loosely”, I mean that I slugged all the way down the trail and back in Katingeza Village for the third day in a row. By this time, Africa and I had ended our honeymoon stage, and I was willing to admit that life in the bush was uncomfortable. I was so tired, so spent. And I was positive that I could not bear one more story of heartbreaking proportions.

Violet with her son

But we were going to visit a woman named Violet, who desperately needed someone to restore a little dignity and listen to her story.

I had met her only a few days before, during one of my routine interview mornings, and knew that this woman had more to say.

A subsistence level farmer, a wife, and a young mother to two children, Violet was steeped in a lifestyle of survival. My interest in her had peaked in our previous interview when her reply to one of my questions caught me completely off-guard. I was asking about her education and why she spent ten years in school, barely completing the 3^rd grade. Even across the cultural communication divide, I caught the matter-of-factness in her voice when she turned to me and simply said,

 “I have no intelligence.”

 My heart stopped in a way. This woman truly believed she had no intelligence. Beginning school at the age of ten, she could not pass the tests to go on to fourth grade by the time she was 20. Talk about persistence! And exhaustion.

 Ten years in three grades. 

What in the world was I supposed to do with that? How could I possibly reconcile Violet’s reality with that of my own back in Carmel, Indiana where “no child is left behind?”

Because Violet was left behind. The system clearly failed her.

The next few moments were filled with vain attempts to try to explain to her that she did possess intelligence. After all, it takes intelligence to figure out how one is going to successfully feed a family every day and make a marriage work. Sure, Violet did not have a fancy degree to wag in my face. She didn’t even have a certificate of graduation from grade school. Yet, unknowingly, this seemingly unintelligent person was teaching me a very important lesson.

I was the one sitting at her feet, learning that all I’ve held to be the epitome of important does not generate my self worth. As confident as I was that Violet had value worth identifying and celebrating, despite her failures, I was not measuring myself by the same standards.

My friend Lissa constantly reminds me of the mantra we had plastered to our dorm room wall last year,

“There has never been anything to prove.”

And this is what Violet reminded me of that day. Beyond failures and all of the ways I can disappoint, and far beyond all of the ways I cannot compare or do not measure up, I do have value that is worth identifying and celebrating. Violet and I- we are both cut out of the same image. And that’s beautiful.