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.

Every year, Grace Community Church in Noblesville, Indiana shuts its doors, cancels its services and sends its congregation out to do service projects all over the city.  This year, World Next Door sent a team of volunteer journalists from Grace’s congregation to tell some of the stories from the weekend.

This is one of those stories.

To read all of the Weekend of Service articles from 2011, click here.

————-

By Gwen Jackson

“This didn’t just happen by chance…” These were the words of the woman with whom I’d just spoken. I spent the day at IPS school #58 Fall Carnival.

IPS Building on a sunny day.

When I arrived on Saturday at 10 AM,  preparations were being made for the day – volunteers waiting for pizza delivery, some setting up games, others raking leaves or cleaning classes. A year ago, Grace volunteers had visited this school to paint and clean. The halls are bright, cheerful and inviting.

Freshly painted beautiful halls.

The parking lot beside the school was being set up with carnival games – corn hole, bowling, face painting, horse rides, bounce house, balloon animals and more. It was a glorious day outside.

I spent most of the day mingling, snapping pictures and finding families of students. I wasn’t very successful. Most visitors were drive-bys who had seen the event from their cars. I was a little disappointed and decided to pitch the notebook and camera and blend in.

I sat to play Bingo with a young mother and her 10 year old son.  Between calls, she spoke of how her son had been bullied at this school and how hard it was for her to return here. Her son had wanted to see his friends. As a teacher, I could relate to the child-hood story and frustrations. It was apparent that she just wanted a listening ear. God had put me there, I’m sure.

All smiles here!

As the carnival was winding down, I felt a little sad that God hadn’t worked through me today. On my way to my car, two little boys were sitting on the curb, petting tiny kittens. I sat to join them in the cuddling. The boy’s grandmother, Bonnie, smiled and said what a wonderful diversion this day had been after a truly terrible week. I asked her if it was something she wanted to talk about.

She began to tell me what she’d been through – her husband had a stroke, her mother was dying of cancer and her 23 year old daughter had been to court in a spousal abuse case. WOW! We talked for a very long time – most of the families and volunteers had gone.

Bonnie’s daughter, Katherine, joined us to take the kittens back to their owners. Bonnie told me that Katherine was struggling to find her path in life and that Kat’s passion was the arts. My heart did a flip-flop as I am an art teacher. Kat told me that she longed to do something creative with her life and be a good role model to her boys. I searched my brain for a way to help. I shared with her that I will be doing an outdoor mosaic in February as an all school project would love some assistance. She immediately asked for a piece of paper and wrote,

Clowning around

“Available to volunteer in your class for projects or daily help! Have great passion for kids and art! This may be very beneficial and may be a stepping stone to my future!”

I don’t know which of us three women smiled wider! I told them that I was there with my church, sharing God’s grace and that I was thrilled to be of help. We talked about how getting her boys into a great church would be a stepping stone into their future as well.

We traded emails and phone numbers and promised to keep in touch. As we hugged and tearfully parted, Bonnie softly said,

“This didn’t just happen by chance.”

I spent June and July of 2011 with ZanaAfrica, an organization that works to empower girls in Kibera slum, Nairobi with a surprising tool: sanitary pads. I may not have understood the burden of menstruation to women living in poverty at the beginning of my trip, but I quickly learned that even something as natural as a monthly period is limiting the potential of impoverished girls all over the world. Luckily, ZanaAfrica is working to stop this.

These girls have bright futures ahead of them.

During my time with ZanaA, I traveled with field agents to schools in Kibera where they distributed sanitary pads and held monthly EmpowerNet lessons to teach computer skills and discuss important topics like self esteem, sex education, and basic health and hygiene.  Spending time in Kibera was often overwhelming and frustrating, but I was moved to find that so many intelligent, motivated girls are able to stay in school for the entire month because of the help they’re getting from ZanaA.

ZanaA is communicating the love of God through actions—they show girls that they are treasured, valuable young women and not burdens. These girls have so much to tell the world. Feel free to read their blogs and listen to this song they want to share.

Stay Safe!

After a brief meeting with Zana Africa in Nairobi, “stay safe” is a request that I don’t want to follow…

Click here to read this article…

Empowerment to EmpowerNet

How nine little laptops are connecting the girls of Kibera slum to the world.

Click here to read this article…

Photo Gallery: Girl Power in Kibera

See how Zana Africa is helping unleash the potential of girls in Kibera slum with computers and sanitary pads

Click here to see this photo gallery…

Men Who Fight for Women

Men talking about pads? Read why we’re never really “out of place” in the fight for social justice.

Click here to read this article…

An Education in Education: Part I

My experience as a Kenyan high schooler (aka my most frustrating day of school ever).

Click here to read this article…

An Education in Education: Part II

Day 2 of Kenyan high school: a refreshing look at what’s here instead of what’s missing.

Click here to read this article…

Photo Gallery: The Future of Kenya Speaks

Read what ZanaA students have to say about themselves and the future—things are looking bright!

Click here to see this photo gallery…

“Epic,” “legit” and “rad” are words in my everyday vocabulary.

Naturally, I thought my summer kickin’ it in Kenya would be all of these things. I was wrong.

I lived in a townhouse. I played Hide-and-Seek with my Kenyan little sister, baby brother and cat, Tracy. I worked at an office controlling Tanari Trust’s social media.

Most of the time, I was uncomfortably comfortable—eating fast food, watching new releases and using indoor plumbing.

Kenya’s future entrepreneurs.

While I yearned for unknown adventure, I found myself surrounded by the unexpectedly ordinary.

And I discovered that I kind of dig typical things.

I like following an office dress code if it ushers me into community. I like going to camp if it reminds me of my beliefs. I like hanging out with teenage girls if it inspires me to change the world.

God has this thing for the ordinary.

At least that’s what I learned this summer surrounded by a welcoming family, loving coworkers and boy-crazy future entrepreneurs.

Transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary.

I guess it was a pretty rad summer after all.

Stuck in the Suburbs

When I learned I was spending the summer in Kenya, I never imagined my life would be so intriguingly ordinary!

Click here to read this article…

Better Than Alright

Change starts with a girl…

Click here to read this article…

Modest is Hottest

Apparently, the clever ladies’ Christian T-shirt adage is right—at least in Nairobi!

Click here to read this article…

Kingdom Camping

Sometimes salvation is closer than it seems…

Click here to read this article…

Photo Gallery: Young Entrepreneurs

All it takes is a girl.

Click here to see this photo gallery…

The Measure of Success

They say, “A business is only as good as its product.”

Click here to read this article…

This Summer, I’ve learned a lot about the challenges that girls face living in Kibera slum, but they have far more to say about their hopes for the future than their fears. The students in ZanaAfrica’s EmpowerNet classes have big plans.

Read what they shared with me about the future, what they’ve learned from ZanaA, and things they want to share with other girls.

(For the protection of those involved, the names and images connected with this story are merely representative of the individuals described)

I’d run out of stories. Or at least, stories that ended with hope. I was discouraged, feeling helpless in the face of the needs that I saw every day. I was so tired of being unable to fix things. But then unexpectedly, all of that changed.

I met a victim that didn’t act like a victim. I found a story finally worth telling. And I heard a request I couldn’t ignore.

The Question

She caught up with me one day as I hiked up the hill from lunch. I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t hear her until I felt a soft touch on my arm.

“Are you walking awhile?” she asked, as her strides matched mine.

When I met Anne, I instantly loved her gentle smile and admired her patience. We laughed and talked easily whenever we met.

Still, I could tell our conversation would be an unusual one.

She asked me about all the everyday things like work and family. I answered hesitantly, unsure of what was coming. When she ran out of questions, Anne paused and took a deep breath.

How humbling it must have been for a mother to ask for help.

“I need to ask you something,” she finally said. We slowed to a stop as I braced myself for the plea for money or the tears I assumed were coming. “My daughter Leah is bright.” Anne said. “She’s turning 13 and going to class one next year.”

He voice was even as she said it, but I saw a flicker of emotion in her eyes.

“My husband left a few months ago,” Anne continued. “There are four of us and it’s hard. God will take care of us, but I’m worried about Leah. She must continue in school and I have no way to pay… I need your help to find her a sponsor.”

The Pause

She dropped her head as she finished, refusing to meet my eyes. I could see how much it pained her ask for help. But she didn’t beg or complain, she just asked.

And she did it in such a humble and honest way that I had no idea how to respond.

Anne told me she had been praying about her situation and felt God was leading her to talk to me. She’d avoided initiating the conversation, but knew I was leaving Kenya in just a few weeks.

“I’ve met so many other white people,” she said. “But you’re different. I knew I had to talk to you about it.”

The only thing that bars so many young women from a meaningful future is the funding for school fees.

I realized her request wasn’t the same as the others I’d heard. It wasn’t like the small children on the street who endlessly begged for coins or like the grandfather who’d tried to sell me his grandson our first week in Nairobi.

It was selfless and vulnerable. The plea of an everyday mother who loved her child so much she would ask a virtual stranger to help, to intrude into their lives.

I found myself asking when I could meet Leah.

The Answer

The following Saturday Anne and I arranged to meet at a gas station and then walk to her home.

I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d been nervous the entire morning, questioning whether I should go at all. What if I couldn’t help? What if the situation was hopeless?

But I went. And my throat grew tight when we met and I saw her face light up.

Anne had the most precious little boy clinging to her back. “My youngest, Alex,” she explained, as he peered at me, curious. At the gate to her compound a face peeked through the bars and then disappeared, giggling. “And that’s John, he’s 6,” she said.

She pulled back the curtain that hung in her doorway and welcomed me in. I squinted in the sudden darkness to find a single room divided into two with a sheet.

Leah can’t wait to work toward becoming a doctor.

I smiled as I saw the Mickey Mouse stickers that covered the television set and the notebooks filled with children’s drawings. Anne and I sat and sipped tea for awhile, until I heard rustling behind the curtain divider. I looked to Anne for an explanation. “Leah, can you come here please?” she said.

A young girl peeked around the divider, hesitant. Leah’s dark eyes looked at me uncertainly. She nervously smoothed bright purple skirt, scattered with sparkles. Something about her was so adorably thirteen.

The Reason

“You’re beautiful!” I blurted out, provoking a timid smile.

I asked Leah what she’d been so busy doing behind the curtain. “It’s Saturday, so of course you aren’t studying!” I said with a smile. “I am,” she replied. “But it’s nice outside!” I exclaimed. She simply nodded.

Anne told me someday Leah wants to be a doctor. She’s one of the best students at her school and next year, she wants to go to an all girls academy with challenging programs.

Leah left to finish her work while my conversation Anne turned to the idea of sponsorship. I told Anne that in all honesty, I couldn’t afford to personally sponsor Leah. Not on a college student’s salary.

I was nervous for Anne’s reaction, but she simply nodded. “I know,” she said. “I just think you can help. You can tell someone about her.”

That’s when the reason I was there clicked. Leah needed someone to tell her story, someone who could communicate all the joy and curiosity that spilled out from her eyes. Someone who could explain just why Leah needed to succeed.

In the fall, Leah hopes to join young women like these at a private academy.

And that’s when I found my story with hope.

I didn’t promise Anne that I would find a sponsor, only that I would try to.

Still, I think I did make that promise to myself.

Somehow, it’s going to happen. Whether that means I get a third job this year, I become independently wealthy (hah), or one of you, dear readers, connects with this story.

And that’s not a sales pitch. It’s a statement of God’s faithfulness to those he loves.

Those like Anne, who humble themselves for their families, for those like Leah, who spend their sunny Saturdays inside with dreams and textbooks …

And those like me, who still long for hope in a broken world.

This is the second part of a two-part article.  To read part one, click here

 ————

For the second time, I found my way through Kibera slum at sunrise and into the classroom where I had sat, frustrated and disillusioned, only one week before.

I’m so glad I did.

Day two of school began just like day one, but this time I knew what to expect. Knowing helped me move past my preoccupation with the lack of resources, lack of structure and lack of comfort. For the first time, I stopped contemplating what we lacked and saw what was present: normal teenagers.

Amrine and Lydia on break from studying

As we sat through lessons in math and business, students scribbled furiously and asked clarification questions. Between lessons they braided each other’s hair and passed around notebooks to copy notes they’d missed. In Biology they asked questions with hidden innuendos and snickered at the teacher’s responses. In Swahili…well, I have no idea. It was all in Swahili.

I was sitting in the middle of a class of inquisitive, bright and somewhat “cheeky” adolescents who were learning.

Students create a notebook like this one for each subject

Little Things

However, little things still struck me along the way. For one thing, nobody knew which lessons were coming. Some days they may learn five, other days ten. Whenever a teacher entered, the students started digging for the corresponding notebook and a piece of chalk for the teacher. Also, a textbook or exercise book may be shared amongst the entire class, meaning that students must spend hours copying text by hand.

As on day one, Snyder graciously walked me through what was happening. I was getting the hang of things by about three, but that’s when my entire class was called—excuse me, chased out with a yard stick—to the courtyard to see the headmaster for a school fees check.

This school costs 5,800 Kenyan shillings per term—the equivalent of about $75 dollars. But even this amount proves difficult for many families that have inconsistent income averaging dollars per day that must serve the entire family.

I helplessly watched out the window as each student approached the school headmaster then either returned to the classroom or lowered her head and went home.

Only eight of thirty-two students returned to Form Two.

Joyce, one of my wise teachers

Frustration

There it was again—that creeping feeling of frustration and hopelessness and pity. Two different teachers came into our classroom, looked at the number of students and decided that they would wait until more students were present to teach. I couldn’t blame them, but how many days would that take?

I was grateful when Snyder and Joyce approached me saying, “Come—we walk!”

We headed out of the school and up the nearby hill, away from the slum. The girls set a sauntering pace along the hilltop as we talked and stretched and looked out at Kibera.

“Look! It’s a funny place, no?” said Joyce. “You know, when people hear you are from Kibera, aye! They just think many things. Some people pretend it is not their home.”

“Do you?”, I asked them.

The girls laughed and shrugged. Snyder waved her arm towards the tin rooftops and chaos saying, “Why? It is where we are. We live here. We are happy with our lives.”

Her words settled into me. We live here. I forgot that. I am so often focused on what needs help, what is broken. I think of everything as in transition towards something better, but as a very wise professor once told me, “Human beings are more than the sum of their needs.”

These girls are living now. They are growing up a little every day.

What is Important

School (especially this one) is rougher than I’d hoped, but it is still critical. When I ask these girls about what is important in life their resounding answer is education. They want to be in class, and they’re grateful for people like those working in ZanaA who keep them there by providing them with sanitary pads.

Even an imperfect school is critical to the lives of adolescents

I’m grateful that they can participate in ZanaA empowerment lessons that provide them with an alternate voice to consider. These lessons invite them to challenge and consider what they hear from friends and teachers in a way that is healthy and liberating.

As we headed down the hill and back into the classroom, the remaining girls lazily asked, “What time is it??” I checked my phone and reported, “5:00”.

“Ugh,” they exclaimed with attitude reminiscent of my teenage years. “Hey, did anyone watch ‘Teresa’ last night? Laura, this show is so great…”

I gladly listened to their telling of the latest soap update, relieved to be free at last from my own shallow perspective, relieved to live for a moment in the light of understanding that tragedy does not dominate Kibera.

This is worse than I imagined. Why is it so dark? Where are the teachers? Are there enough desks for all of us? 6:45 am…only 11 hours of this.

These were my first impressions of Kenyan school. A few weeks ago I decided to spend the day with one of Zana Africa’s EmpowerNet classes—not the one hour that we see each other in the afternoon, but an entire day. I wanted to experience Form Two (tenth grade) with these girls.

When I first asked the head teacher if I could attend class, he was confused but open to the idea. “Ahhh…ok. We start at 6:45 am. Karibu. You are most welcome.”

The sun coming up at the start of the school day

There were things that I already knew about this school. For one thing, it’s a community private school in Kibera slum, meaning that students must pay something to attend. A few years ago, the Kenyan government declared public school free. Then they stopped building them. In places like Kibera, three public schools serve a population of hundreds of thousands.

The solution is dozens of privately owned schools with low school fees. However, these schools fly under the radar. This school is one of many where the majority of students are not passing standardized exams.

The school can only afford minimal teacher salaries and has zero budget for supplies and maintenance. Hundreds of kids sit in classrooms of iron sheeting in crowded, broken desks while squinting through dim lighting at lessons on dilapidated chalkboards.

I knew all of this just from visiting, but it’s nothing compared to what I learned in one and a half days of class.

A Routine Ritual

After dragging myself across the slum as the sun was rising, I settled into my desk at 6:45 in the morning. Surprisingly, most of the students were there as well, wiping the dust off of their benches before sitting down in their well-worn uniforms. Promptness is typically not important here in Kenya, but I learned it definitely matters in school.

Students make do with whatever supplies are available

Shortly after 7:00, a teacher began marching a group of kids into the courtyard where they kneeled or laid down on their stomachs. He quickly moved from student to student, delivering lashes with a switch in a ritual that seemed routine.

The apparent confusion and horror on my face was answered with a soft, “They were late” coming from the table across the aisle. “What?” I said, turning towards Snyder—one of the ZanaA girls—as she relocated to my table. “We get punished for being late. Do they do this in your country?” she asked, as I looked back and forth between our classroom—waiting for a tardy teacher—and the kids outside.

“Um, they used to do something like it. It’s not really allowed anymore.” I said. She nodded understandingly and said, “Here too. It’s been outlawed by the government.”

Meet Snyder

The Kenyan government has also outlawed school on Saturday, but these students still go. They go to school from 6:45 am to 6:00 pm six days a week in order to cover eleven subjects. Their school seems to think that more time in the classroom will yield better education and better test scores.

However, after four hours in school I had only seen one lesson. Most of the morning we sat in the dark as students flipped through their notes or put their heads down on their desks to catch up on sleep.

Snyder

Snyder sat next to me all morning, gently explaining to me everything that was happening. She showed me the notebooks that every student buys for school and rebinds with newsprint to protect them, and she explained that the power is usually out like today, which is why everyone had brought their desks to the window.

Snyder is not a particularly friendly girl—she is guarded and soft-spoken, and I’ve witnessed her calmly yet harshly tell off the older boys who come to harass the Form Two students. She usually sits with her head on her desk and always looks at the ground when she smiles. However, she is naturally welcoming.

Her daily life is very similar to her classmates’. Every morning Snyder walks to school from her home where she lives with her father and a handful of her six siblings. Her mother works in a rural area outside of Nairobi—she hasn’t been home since January.

Every evening when Snyder returns home she prepares dinner and cleans alongside her older sisters before studying and falling into bed at 10:30 or 11:00 pm then wakes up at 5:00 to start again.

Is school really worth pursuing when circumstances are this rough?

Why?

Life revolves around school, which only added to my growing frustration as I sat in that classroom. The whole mission of ZanaA centers on keeping girls in school—in this place—by providing sanitary pads and knowledge.

Why? What good is coming from this? I thought.

Eventually, some students explained to me that because midterm exams were starting the next day, most teachers probably wouldn’t be teaching anything. I wasn’t satisfied with the explanation, but I was desperate to leave.

I walked away from school with more questions than answers. There was still so much I didn’t understand. As much as it I didn’t want to, I knew that I needed to go back…

Stay Tuned for Part II tomorrow!

I am out of place in Kenya. Everything from eating to driving to greeting is different from what I’m used to. Obviously I look out of place in Kenya. Every time I sit with girls in a Zana Africa EmpowerNet class they gawk at my physical differences. They run their fingers through my hair, pinch my finger nails and stroke my arm hair like I’m a different species instead of just a different race.

After a month in Kenya, I’m comfortable being out of place, but I’m not comfortable with the reputation that precedes me. Kenya was once exploited as a British colony, and since becoming independent they have received buckets of international aid—monetary and otherwise—that has done as much damage as good.

Kajani making sure that all of the girls are following the lesson.

In Kibera slum, the summer months bring countless groups of internationals with hearts full of good intentions, but also a nasty stigma: you’ve got money, and you think you have the answers.

I’m uncomfortable seeing myself in this light. Am I just another mzungu holding babies in Kibera? Do I belong in the fight for social justice in this slum? In Kenya? In Africa?

Amos in an EmpowerNet session. (Photo by Barry Rodriguez)

That question troubles me constantly. Last week while setting up an EmpowerNet session with preteen girls from Kibera slum I couldn’t help but think, “These girls don’t need me to talk to—they need some young women from here who know their struggles.”

My thought was interrupted by the start of class—a warm, charismatic greeting from none other than Kajani, a man. Then another man, Amos, started the session by explaining that today we talk to the girls about what they liked and disliked about local sanitary pads.

“Excuse me??” I thought. How do young men find themselves talking to girls about sanitary pads? More importantly, why are they here, as advocates for women? I mean, I know I’m not Kenyan, but at least I’ve used pads.

Then I remembered the day I met Amos. I was listening to him explain the story of ZanaA, when someone in my group asked, “Do you find yourself stepping back a little on days when ZanaA hands out pads or talks about personal topics?”

His face lit up in a confident smile as he raised his arms and told us, “No—I love women!”

Ok Cassanova. I was a little hesitant to be working with this guy all summer. But after one month watching Amos and Kajani work, I’m convinced that they are in exactly the right place even without “fitting in”.

Girls playing outside of their school in Kibera.

I asked Kajani if he ever feels uncomfortable as a mentor to young girls, and he explained he needs to be here because girls in Kibera are vulnerable. Generally, people living in Kibera are poor, but a girl in Kibera is at risk of prostituting herself for food, getting pregnant and dropping out of school and into the cycle of poverty.

He says, “For me, helping girls is like helping my sisters.” Moreover, “This is an opportunity for them to see a male as someone they can trust.”

His position is not unlike that of Amos, who grew up in Kibera and is sick of the mentality of abuse. He laments that many women think, “It’s normal for men to beat me up. It’s the culture.” Amos also sees his position as a chance to demonstrate trusting, respectful relationships between men and women.

Their role is clearly important as mentors…but talking about periods?

Amos and Kajani acknowledge that girls are feeling embarrassed and ashamed over something completely natural because of how other people—especially men—react to it. They are talking about menstruation to be intentionally counter-cultural.

It’s beautiful to witness. I couldn’t help but smile this week to see Kajani crouched at a desk with attentive girls talking about buying pads. And there was something so moving in reading Amos’s blog post entitled “Women Are Not Objects!”

Amos makes the most of his time with all of the ZanaA students.

These guys are not substitutes to the presence of women on the field officer team. Let’s face it—their knowledge of being a woman only goes so far. But they also bring an irreplaceable, critical dynamic to the empowerment of women in Kibera. Their willingness to be “out of place” puts them in a unique position of influence.

Maybe being out of place is the right place to be. I keep thinking about the story of the Good Samaritan. Every time I hear it, I’m impressed by the kindness that the Samaritan showed—but I’m more impressed that he was a Samaritan helping a Jewish man in a time and place where the cultures were not on good terms. Our actions may hold added weight when they are to benefit the “others” in our communities.

But when is the right time to bandage wounds and lend out my donkey like the Samaritan? Misplaced help can be harmful. I know so little about the world that I’ve stepped into, and even at home I sometimes feel inadequate while trying to serve those around me struggling with addictions and situations I’ve never experienced.

Me with some of the girls at class. (Photo by Barry Rodriguez)

Yet we’re called to do something. At home, maybe I’m poised to be a Kajani or an Amos. Maybe being female or young or middle class adds an important dynamic to a struggle I’m passionate about. Maybe engaging with the “others” is powerful on its own; Jesus told us “The poor will always be among you,” but I worry that we’re building a world where suffering is easy to ignore—we need to consciously engage.

In Kibera, engaging is the most important thing I do. I’m here to learn, to listen, and to witness. That’s my place.

Serving others looks different in different contexts. I’ll probably hold quite a few more babies while I’m here, but mostly I’m learning from people who are fighting for things that have nothing and everything to do with themselves.