AN AFRICAN SCRAPBOOK

In May/June, 2001, I travelled to Africa with a friend at the invitation of a Burundian pastor. Most people who are privileged to make a trip to Africa return with colourful memories of wild animals, beautiful scenery and interesting experiences. For me, the memories that remain are somewhat different, but then I guess that's because I didn't go as a tourist, but to minister, and that probably gave me a different perspective. The memories that have remained for me are mostly of the women and children I encountered, for whom daily life means daily survival. These ones don't cherish distant dreams of happiness, success, love or peaceful old age as we do in our comfortable western lifestyles. Sometimes making it to the next meal, through the next night, or through the next month is the only hope they dare hold. For some, even one year is like a life-time.

The first few days of our journey were spent in Nairobi, the capital of Kenya, and one of the largest cities in Africa. The second stage of our trip was spent in Bujumbura, the capital of the impoverished/war-torn nation of Burundi, which some Burundians like to call the "heart of Africa".

By day we ministered to Hutu refugees in a small mud-brick church devoid of electricity, toilets, or floor coverings, in the poorest suburb of what is arguably the poorest nation on earth. I will never forget the welcome we received from these people the afternoon we arrived after a long day at Nairobi Airport waiting for a very delayed flight. There must have been around 200 men, women and children who'd patiently gathered and waited all day in the heat for us to arrive. The singing, the dancing, the beating of the drums and the sheer joy on the faces of these amazing people who'd suffered so much, but wanted to see these ladies who'd flown in the silver bird all the way from a country called Australia - the unexpected warmth of their welcome remains with me. Most of them had been bussed in from rural areas and had not eaten that day, perhaps for several days. For them, one meal a day was quite an achievement.

The few days we spent with these Hutu refugees ministering the Word and worshiping with them in their exuberant, uninhibited freedom seems like a distant dream now as I sit at my computer in my comfortable home in my comfortable nation. Nevertheless, my life was changed forever in that little mud church in the middle of Africa. No longer was I sitting in front of a T.V. watching the suffering of African people and praying for them from the safety of my living room. No, I was touching those faces, laying hands on those mal-nourished bodies, sharing the tears, sharing the smiles and worshiping Jesus with people who had real names, beautiful faces that beamed at me and voices that, amazingly, rang with joy as they danced or knelt before Him on that dirt floor. They say Africa gets into your heart. All I know is God placed Africa deep in my heart during that time, and it hasn't left.

By night we lay in our beds at the Catholic monastery where we were staying, listening for the sound of mortar shells in the surrounding hills, a reminder of the on-going civil war and the close proximity of rebel soldiers. Some nights we heard it - some nights we didn't. Sleep was intermittent due to the constant yelping of savage dogs just beneath our first floor windows, whose purpose was to guard the compound at night from rebel attack. We never saw the dogs in the daytime, but the sounds of their ceaseless fighting and growling throughout the night was eerie. The Catholic monastery was considered a rebel target, and one morning we rose to find armed government soldiers filling the compound. Apparently a well-known Bishop had arrived during the night and there were fears of an attack. Both Protestant and Catholic clergy had been murdered during this ongoing tribal conflict between Hutus and Tutsis in Burundi and neighbouring Rwanda. Tension between these two ethnic groups had led to the appalling Rwandan genocide of 1994, and in Burundi that tension still simmers.

If the rebels and the dogs didn't succeed, the call to prayer from the nearby Muslim mosque played over loudspeakers at sunrise each morning left us in no doubt that we were just about as far away from home as we could get, both culturally and physically.

All of these are memories of course, but it's the deepest memories I want to share here. Since returning from Africa three years ago now I've seldom spoken in depth about the things that touched me most during my time there. There are some things that are hard to express, even to those closest to you, and so you keep them to yourself. For some reason, the Lord is now stirring these hidden memories. They are returning vividly to me; they keep me awake at night, and flash before my spiritual eyes during the day. Perhaps I am to write them down. Perhaps I am to share them.

On my last day in Africa I slipped and fell heavily on a tiled floor as I was attempting to manoeuvre my heavy suitcase down a small step. The searing pain in my left knee told me some serious damage had occurred, but medical intervention was not an option right then. We did not have ready access to a doctor, and besides, we had a plane to catch to Australia in just a few hours' time. Since that day, most days I now walk with a limp. An orthopaedic specialist recently told me I have the knees of someone twenty years older than I am. My trip to Africa was costly in more ways than I can recount here. Africa left its mark on my body, my soul and, I suspect, my spirit. Or was Africa destined to become my place of wrestling with God ( Genesis 32:24-31)? Perhaps Africa and I are not finished with each other yet. Even so Lord, let your will be done.

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MY MEMORIES OF AFRICA 2001

 

The Street Boys of Nairobi

We are stopped by a red light at a busy city intersection. The children converge on the car, more enthusiastically when they see European faces in the back seat. Our indigenous pastor/driver warns us not to open the windows under any circumstances, and to lock the doors. They are boys ranging in age possibly from ten to early adolescence. It's hard to tell. One presses his face hard against the window pleading with me continually in broken English "please missus, please... I am hungry..." His hands are scratching and pounding on the window inches from my face. He wants money, and everything in me wants to give it to him, but I know the instant I begin to wind down the window his well-trained hand will reach in and snatch a purse or a camera. A taller boy standing with him looks at me through the glass while he continues to plead loudly. I notice his eyes. He is looking but he is not seeing. Then I notice he is swaying slightly. I recognise the absent stare of a drug-induced stupor, as his cloudy eyes roll back into their sockets. For a few hours at least, he has found his escape, and I can't blame him. Please God, please, let the lights change, ..... I can't bear to watch this and not be able to do anything about it ........

The lights turn green, we travel on and the boys return to the curbside to await the next red light and the next lot of cars. Most of these boys end up as child prostitutes, become part of the African slave-trade, or are kidnapped to become child soldiers in one of the many internal conflicts raging across the continent. Those glazed, absent eyes haunt me still. He didn't seem any older than thirteen, fourteen perhaps, but already he was too old.

 

The Prostitute with the Baby on her Back

We have been travelling the main highway in Nairobi and we stop to fill up with petrol. There is a woman in the middle of the highway. She has an infant tied to her back in the African custom. She is talking to any driver who will stop and listen to her. It takes me a little while to realise she is soliciting. Our African pastor/driver goes over to speak with her while the tank is being filled. He returns to the car shaking his head sorrowfully. She had of course listened to him respectfully - men of God are highly respected here. But in the end she continues with her work and we continue with our journey. After all, who will feed her baby otherwise?

 

The Woman and the Child

Our friend has important things to do before we fly to Bujumbura in a few days time. Visas and permits must be arranged and a flight booked. Making for a government office, he hurriedly leads us by foot through the streets of downtown Nairobi. What is that large, brown, bundle I see on the footpath that people are rushing past and stepping over and around? Our pastor friend also rushes past; this is not an unusual sight to him. It is a woman, and she has a young child. It is morning and I realise her and the child have slept in that spot overnight. How many nights, Lord? I look at her face. It seems lifeless. Her eyes are sunken deep into her head, her face is lined with the marks of age, yet I know in my heart she is not old, certainly not as old as I am. She does not plead, she does not make eye contact, she simply sits gazing blankly at the footpath as the people step over the top of her. I look at the child. This child should be protesting, at least whimpering from hunger, but the child makes no sound at all. I sense death in the air. Lord, what can I do, what can I do? The pastor has moved on and will not wait - if I do not stay with him in this crowded city I will be hopelessly lost in this city of millions. Whatever happened to the woman and the child on that Nairobi street that day? Probably one of thousands you might say. Yes, no doubt. But I remember her face.

 

The Children at the Orphanage

In Bujumbura we have been taken to see an orphanage by an indigenous Christian ministry. The children are young in age, some barely walking, and none older than eight. They greet us at the door with great excitement - they don't often get visitors. One little girl startles us by saying in almost perfect English "Hello, how are you?" In this orphanage the children are taught English as well as their native language. Some of the children climb all over us, laughing and squealing excitedly and beg us to play games with them or push them on the swing. Others hold back shyly or run to the familiar arms of the carer. They line up, smiling toothy grins, to have me take their photos. They are dressed immaculately in colourful, clean clothes provided by the indigenous ministry. They show us their sleeping rooms and bathroom, painted in bright, vibrant colours African style. In some ways they seem like any other happy, playing children anywhere in the world. Then we remember that they are here because their parents are dead from aids. There is one little girl aged somewhere between two and three, who was found shortly after birth having been flushed down a toilet. She survived. There are many more that don't.

 

The Woman Trying to Cross the Road

We have been walking through the town of Bujumbura this afternoon, looking for an internet cafe where we can send news to our friends praying for us in Australia. The traffic in Africa is chaotic. It seems every time we want to cross a road we take our lives in our hands. There are no speed limits, few road rules if any, and what seems like countless African male drivers who seem to have decided "scuttle the Australian" is currently the best game in town. And blisters on your feet and uneven dirt roads don't help when you're running the gauntlet trying to get out of their way! I think I'm having a hard time until I see a woman with one leg, trying to cross a road with a little girl. It is probable she has lost one of her legs through an encounter with a land mine, disease or even a machete attack. This is Burundi after all. I watch her for some time as several times she moves with her one leg and her one wooden crutch out on to the road hoping the traffic will break. It doesn't, and each time she is forced back to the footpath. Meanwhile, her little girl has impatiently decided to move on. Ducking and weaving the oncoming traffic, she runs quickly to the other side. The woman looks on helplessly. Lord, who will help this woman do all the things I take for granted? Who will care for her? Again, I feel helpless, and angry. If I could stop the traffic and get her across, I would. But they will run both of us down just as happily as one of us. It is time to leave the woman with her struggle and move back to the compound, past the mob of leering men who verbally assault us every day as we pass. "I have cigarettes, lady. What brand you want? I have them all, you pay me." A polite smile and "no thankyou" makes no difference. We are Westerners, therefore we have money, and all westerners need cigarettes don't they? They think we are being coy, so every day we pass they get bolder and louder. But no-one helps the woman with one leg.

 

The Aids Clinic and the Ugandan Pastor

In Bujumbura my friend and I were asked to speak at a Christian outreach clinic for aids patients. We travelled by car into the slum area of the city, which turned out to be beyond anything I could imagine, even though I had expected to see poverty. Shanties and other temporary houses inadequately built from any material that could be collected lined muddy dirt streets where animals roamed and children played amongst filth and squalor. The streets were crowded with people mostly walking aimlessly or sitting talking. We drove past a mother beating her child mercilessly. I watched her intently in the hope that she would feel my gaze and stop, but she only looked up at me with a defiant glare as she continued to hit and scream at the child. The atmosphere was thick with oppression, hopelessness and evil.

The clinic was run every Friday by the ministry to offer support, treatment and the gospel to aids sufferers, all of whom were in various stages of dying. When we arrived we found a group of people crowded closely into the small building. Aids among these people is a matter of deep shame and humiliation. Aids sufferers are shunned by neighbours and friends, and the effects of that shame on most of these people was evident in their faces. Each member of our ministry team had about ten minutes to share something from the scriptures, with the help of an interpreter. We had been asked to do this with very little notice and I was still asking the Lord about what to share when we arrived. Lord, what can I possibly say to these people who are dying in shame and squalor, despised by their community, that can possibly mean anything?

The Lord didn't let me down. When it was my turn to share I read to them the passage about Zacchaeus, the little man who climbed a tree to see Jesus. Without mentioning their own situations directly, I told them about his very short stature and described him trying to run ahead and scramble up the tree so he wouldn't miss Jesus. They laughed. I told them about his shame because he was a tax collector and no-one in his town wanted to be his friend, and they wept. I shared with them that despite his physical appearance, and despite the fact that he had no friends, Jesus loved Zacchaeus and He wasn't afraid for all the town to know He loved him. When they learned that Jesus had chosen to go to Zacchaeus' house for dinner, their eyes widened in amazement. They had never heard of such a thing. I could see the question on their faces - why would Jesus want to spend His time with Zacchaeus.? I told them Jesus loved people who were desperate for Him. I finished by telling them that Jesus was still looking for desperate people like Zacchaeus, just like them, to be His friends. I remember one man who sat on the edge of his seat watching me with tearfilled eyes, listening intently to every word of the story as it was interpreted. He could hardly wait to see what was going to happen. When he heard Jesus wanted to be his friend the relief and joy on his face was so intense I thought his smile would break his face. Thankyou Lord, you know exactly what to say and how to say it!

As some of the ministry team had been sharing, I'd noticed a very tall African man enter the building. He was thin and dressed in a suit that looked like it might be the only set of clothes he owned, but there was a dignity about him that was not present on anyone else in the building. I assumed he was a local minister known to our ministry friends, so was surprised when they said they didn't know who he was or where he'd come from. He waited until all the proceedings were over, and then he stood, opened his Bible and began to speak to the Burundians in their native tongue and with great authority. I had no idea what he was saying, but I could see the impact it was having in the room. There was a deep silence and air of respect as he spoke passionately to the people. When he finished we went to leave. It was then he turned to the small ministry team, which included a young visiting English couple, as well as my friend and myself, and he began to prophesy in broken English. I don't remember what he said except for his final words. He waved his hand in our direction, fixed his eyes on us and prophesied "You will return to Africa." To be honest I didn't know at the time if his prophecy was directed at the English couple, my friend, myself, or all of us. I still don't. We were told later that he was apparently a Ugandan pastor who had come across to Burundi at the direction of the Holy Spirit to pray and preach to the people. The church in Uganda at that time was much stronger than the Burundian church, and apparently he had simply turned up in the meeting at the direction of the Lord. No-one had known that he would turn up at this particular clinic in this particular slum on this particular day, but he did, and I will not forget him or the authority he carried. The Lord has many treasured vessels, refined in the fires of adversity, who He reveals and utilises at the most unexpected times in the most unusual places. I believe this Ugandan servant was one of them.

 

The Women at the Church

We have come to the little mud-hut church today to teach and minister. We must minister in the day time, before sundown, because there is no electricity for night time meetings, and there is fear of a rebel attack after dark here on the outskirts of Bujumbura. In fact the day after we left, rebels killed a local woman in a house not far from the church. She was apparently suspected of collaborating with the government. The rebels are not averse to kidnapping and killing foreigners either. We were shown a badly damaged mini-bus with bullet holes that had been ambushed on the road a couple of months before we arrived. A young English aid worker in her early twenties travelling in the bus had been deliberately murdered, not for any apparent reason.

The women in this church are unforgettable. They greet us in traditional style by patting us down with both hands on either sides of our bodies - shoulders, hips, legs - at the same time bowing and repeating over and over something I don't understand. I am told they are thanking us for coming to them. They don't know, of course, how I struggled in the months leading up to this trip with thoughts of stifling heat, inedible food and disease, as well as the fear of kidnap by rebel forces. How would they react if they knew I'm not the great white hero-woman they think I am? But I can't tell them because they don't understand me. I can only smile, accept their loving gestures, and swallow my embarrassment. I take comfort in the fact that the Lord knows what I'm really made of, and He knows what to do about it. Like sending me to Africa for a lesson in humility and simple faith.

These refugee women love to dress in long bright skirts and matching turban-like headwear. It is strange to see them wearing western style T-shirts with words like Nike and Reebok under their traditional style clothing. The T shirts obviously come through aid agencies to the refugee camps. Their little ones are tied tightly to their backs by a large piece of cloth, sleeping peacefully or crying to be fed.

The women sit mostly at the back of the church when we are teaching and listen respectfully. One day, after teaching, I ask the women to come forward with their children so we can pray for the little ones. I am expecting them to come and stand in front of the altar, but when they come forward they get straight down on their knees on the dirt floor with their faces low to the ground, many with babies still on their backs, and other little ones clinging to them. To my knowledge, there was no woman or child who did not respond. I realise they are kneeling in humility before God, yes, but also before my friend and I, because we are going to pray for their children. When was the last time someone prayed for their children, Lord? These Burundian women who the world has largely forgotten? Has the church forgotten them too? We kneel down in the dirt beside them, praying for each child, praying for each woman, blessing them, asking for healing, asking for a peaceful future for these little ones, allowing Jesus to touch them and love them through our hands, our smiles, our eyes. Some of the women briefly make eye contact, but only for a moment, looking down again and moving back to the rear of the church silently. They ask nothing for themselves; it is enough to know that Jesus cares for their children.

 

The Moving of the Spirit

Another day I tell the people through Mary, our interpreter, the parable of a Hebrew betrothal and wedding, and how Jesus our Bridegroom is coming back for them, His Bride. This is a story-telling culture and they give me their undivided attention. I tell them that they are betrothed to Jesus and must remain faithful to Him, not running after other gods or idols or they will break His heart. Before I can end the story with a prayer, the people are suddenly on their feet repenting, crying out to God with hands raised, weeping loudly, some running to the altar to lie face down in the dust of the dirt floor. They are heartbroken at the thought of not having loved Jesus their Bridegroom deeply enough. They are crying out as though inconsolable. The Holy Spirit is moving and I get out of His way. He has taken over and I sit in awe as they pour out their hearts and cry out in anguish seeking forgiveness for their lukewarm condition. I have not witnessed anything as spontaneous in any western church meeting, even where the Spirit is moving deeply. There is no need to lay hands on them, there is no need to pray with them, there is no need to DO anything. The Spirit is doing it Himself and I sit and watch without moving or speaking. He told me He would move, but I didn't expect this. I have no previous experience to compare it with.

Suddenly, one of the elders begins to sing out a spontaneous song of praise. I can't understand the words, but I can sense the Spirit in the song. They move with him from heartbreaking anguish into exuberant joy. They begin to sing African style, one singing out and another responding like an echo. They begin to dance, leaping and moving with unashamed joy in natural rhythm that comes easily and without inhibition. Their joy has come as suddenly and as spontaneously as their repentance. Lord, these people have so much to teach us. All my friend and I can do is stand and dance with them, clapping our hands even though we can't sing the words. They see us joining in with them and they smile appreciatively at our clumsiness, but they don't laugh at us. They understand. They are glad we are with them. We are family. We are one in the Spirit. We belong to the Bridegroom. In these moments of unashamed joy in this dark little mud church deep in the heart of darkest Africa, the Kingdom has become manifest in our midst. The King is indeed dancing with His Bride.

Cheryl McGrath, Great South Land Ministries

 

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