Uganda Day 4: Into the Refugee Camps
There has been almost no connection, so, for the time being, I will not be able to post any pictures. I will add them in a few days when I have better connection.
Anyways… today we visited the refugee camp in Palorinya. We left the compound around 8:30am, and after about an hour of obstacle-course-like driving, we entered the refugee area.
Once I’m somewhere with a stable connection, I’ll upload some videos, but for now I’ll just say: this is not a place anyone would want to be stuck in. The poverty and starvation you see with even a quick glance is enough to hit you deep in the gut.
I was especially moved watching a small girl who couldn’t have been older than five—and her little brother, maybe three—carrying water for what must have been multiple miles.
What’s even crazier to imagine is that this level of destitution is the better option. South Sudan and Sudan, where many of these refugees are from, are war-torn and nearly uninhabitable. My father once told me that during his first visit to South Sudan, before the civil war, almost three-quarters of the people were armed with semi-automatic rifles, and nearly all who didn’t have guns carried spears or clubs. People lived in constant fear. Things have only worsened since then.
Heavy stuff… but on a happier note, when we arrived at Living Water’s local school, we got to watch the kids perform their weekly concert, and it was absolutely epic. If there’s one thing I can say, it’s that Africans—above any other people I’ve met—can sing and dance like nobody’s business. It’s wild. In the middle of the concert, the leader of that facility, Brother Ishmael, gave a powerful teaching to everyone present.
After the concert, we looked around the facilities—the baking school, the motorbike mechanic school, and the primary and pre-primary schools. I regret not taking pictures here, but I was so shaken from earlier and honestly forgot. Even better than pictures, though, were the stories I got to hear from Brother Simon and Brother Ishmael.
Simon is a South Sudanese man of the Acholi tribe who, at just 20 years old, is a pastor of a 130-person church, a farmer, and a schoolteacher. On top of that, he walks two hours to the school and two hours back every day he teaches. Absolutely insane.
Ishmael, on the other hand, is a North Sudanese man who was abandoned by his parents at age seven and moved to Kenya. When he returned to Sudan as an adult—having found Jesus—his Muslim family proudly threatened to kill him for it and forced him to leave the village without even taking his belongings. Despite everything, he carries himself with so much joy and purpose, leading the school and helping teach at the pastor training center we visited yesterday.
During these conversations, Anne (our fearless leader), Bala, and the rest of the team finally arrived. Aside from my father and me, everyone faced so many delays that they arrived 2.5 days later than planned—all of which was spent traveling. As unfortunate as that is, it’s still a blessing that they all made it safely to Moyo.
For some background: Anne is the founder and leader of Living Water and has been working in non-profits since before I was born. She and her husband Bala have been good friends with my dad since they first met in Sudan just after the turn of the century. All three of them do incredible work—Anne practically runs everything herself on the ground, and my dad is basically a one-man army. It’s a privilege to work beside them.
After catching up, my father and I left to rejoin Simon at another kids’ club in a different refugee camp. These children were young, and there were a lot of them. Around 800 kids were packed into a “room” that couldn’t have been more than 1,000 square feet—about one square foot per kid, especially since the leaders (including us and Simon) took up about 100 of those square feet. “Room” is in quotes because it was really a pavilion with a sheet-metal roof and tarps for walls.
(Simon doing singing with the kids)
I shed a few (hopefully) manly tears as I remembered my Cambodian friend Theara’s story of growing up in a refugee camp. Her family struggled so much that she didn’t even know chicken wasn’t just the bones the soldiers threw at her until she was almost a teenager. These kids were so hungry. Besides the joy of singing today and the little bag of cookies they received, they probably only have hard work ahead of them for the rest of the week.
(The bag of cookies each child received. This was probably all many of them got to eat for the entire day. In addition, none of them ate their cookies there at the place— this tells me they went home and shared them.)
However simple it may seem, I cannot express enough how important this silly time is for these children, how important the refugee schools and the pastor training school are. I thank God for Anne and her work here. I thank God for Simon, Ishmael, Alex, and everyone supporting her dream. I thank God for every person in the United States and around the world who give what they have to help people whose faces they’ll never even see.
Besides the long drive home, not much else happened today… well, my father was surprised for his birthday by Anne and Bala. That was really sweet.
Anyway. It’s midnight. I’ve been writing this post and the last one for about four hours. I’m going to BED.
Good night! More tomorrow.
Just kidding—time for a reflection:
I’m so thankful to be here. As mentally and physically exhausting as things can be, I’m constantly reminded of the blessings God has given me: running water (or water at all), food, a house with windows and walls, a clean bed, clothes that aren’t in tatters, good health, a family who loves both me and, more importantly, the Lord; friends who support me whenever I stumble; and peace that surpasses all understanding. Thank you, God, for your infinite blessings. Let Your kingdom reign forever and ever. Amen.
