The Batwa

Many of you have asked questions about the people of Bugenyzi. It occurred to me that in my eagerness to tell their story, I am telling you about people you have never met.  So without further ado, it is my incredible honor and privilege to introduce you to the Batwa!

Burundi is a small country in central Africa.  You may have heard of Rwanda because of the genocide.  Burundi is right below that.  It is sandwiched in between the Congo and Tanzania.  It is about the size of Maryland and has a population of around 10.8 million.  It is one of the five poorest countries in the world and certainly the hungriest.  There are 17 provinces which are the equivalent of states.  Bujumbura is the largest city and also the capital.  

 

There are three tribes.  Tutsi, Hutu, and Batwa.  

Burundi has been plagued with war.  There were 2 major genocides.  One in 1972 where the Hutu’s were targeted and one in 1993 where the Tutsi’s were the target.  However, civil war spanned over 30 years ending in 2009, killing about half a million people.

We spend some time in Bujumbura because that is where the organization we work with is based. They are Harvest for Christ  (http://www.harvestforchrist.net/)  But, what we really go for is 4 hours up a mountain in the province of Karusi, the village (town) is Bugenyuzi.  http://www.ezilon.com/maps/africa/burundi-maps.html  There is a community of Batwa there that we serve and have fallen in love with.

The Batwa were the first tribe in the Burundi area.  Traditionally, they were hunters and gathers for the king and were known for moving around.  They would build a temporary hut for shelter until they did what they needed in that area and move on to hunt elsewhere, build a hut then move on again.  

Hutu and Tutsi began to settle in the area.  But unlike the Batwa, they would build with the intention of staying and cultivating the land.  As more people immigrated, forests were destroyed and turned into farmland and pastures.  This made it hard for Batwa to do their jobs.  (90% of the land is now farmland and pastures.)  The need for and dependency upon the Batwa became less and less.  Meanwhile the Tutsi and Hutu were creating self sustaining farmlands and livestock.  

Less people looked to hire the Batwa to hunt for them as the land in which they could hunt was becoming obsolete.  The Batwa became more dependant upon their women to provide through making and selling pottery.   Unfortunately, cheap mass production of products led to plastic replacing pottery.  The pots became unnecessary.  The Batwa were then forced into other jobs that would provide quick money for food such as day laborers or brick makers.   The few that were still able to hunt hit their biggest obstacle as hunting became illegal in an effort to protect what was left of the rainforests.   

As the Batwa became poorer and more desperate, they would eat anything they could find and their clothing became filthy and tattered.  They began to be viewed as unclean, repulsive, and uncivilized.  While the other tribes could afford to build brick homes the Batwa could not afford the upgrade.  This created others to see them as living in the wild like the animals. They became shunned, despised, and worthless.  

Batwa were stagnant while the other tribes progressed.  Hutu and Tutsi families were given birth certificates, identity cards, and medical cards that all associated them with the country.  Without these things the Batwa had no way of owning land, getting medical help,or even being counted in the Census.  They became jungle people without a jungle.

To this day, they are taken advantage of.  They will work all day making bricks (around 200 a day) and be paid 50 cents or a few bananas.  Since they have no way of legal defense, they are an easy target for their land to be stolen and vulnerable to much violence.  Even for those that know education is vital to their future, it is either too far away, too expensive, or the family can not afford to lose one of their workers.  For the lucky few that find education a possibility, often they drop out after a couple years because of hunger.

It’s a hopeless spot to find yourself unable to live as you have traditionally yet modern society is unattainable.  

When we look in the eyes of the Batwa we see something different.  We encounter people who are kind, hospitable, loving, humble, hard working, committed, tender, sweet, and valuable.  We see people who need an advocate.  They have a purpose and were created on purpose by a God who loves them and made them in His image.   People who deserve to meet the God who declares them equal and worthy.  To meet a Jesus who died for them.

So we go.

The Church Body

      We arrived in the city (Bujumbura) on Friday evening.  Saturday was filled with rest, sightseeing and a somewhat violent game spoons.  Sunday morning at breakfast we were given 2 warnings about church.  First that it was going to be 3 hours and include 2 sermons.  Second, someone from the church had died the night before so church would be a bit different.

      I don’t know much, but I got the idea that the man was not necessarily pronounced dead at the hospital, sent to a morgue, and waiting at the funeral home as we would do here.  The pastor had spend most of the night literally taking the body to various places to do whatever it was that was needed.   And now, we were being warned about what would happen in the service.

      Church was in fact very different than it is here.  I certainly do not want to put anyone down and our talents all come in different areas, but lets just say next time you see your worship leader, give them a hug!  It was basically 2 complete services with an intermission in the middle.  We had the first set of worship songs and a sermon.  Intermission included some stretches, blessing the people outside the building by chanting and pushing air toward them in every direction, and a lively dance by the pastor.  Then, the second half began with Jay giving greetings from America and the Chapel, it had some special music and a second sermon.  So far so good.  It did not seem too different because of the death.  

      We were in the last stages of the second half singing another round of worship songs when the unthinkable happened.  I know we were warned but I really feel we needed a bit more prep for what came next.  While singing, a couple guys paraded a body down the middle aisle across the front and around into a room to the side of the church.  It took everything in my being to not have my eyes pop out of my head and stare.  No casket.  No warning.  And no one else was phased.  All I could think was, “Keep your eyes forward.  Pretend this is normal.  What happens in Africa stays in Africa.”  The service ended with a prayer for the family who lost their loved one.

      After church we did the white mans parade.  (AKA boarded the bus.  This always seemed funny to me.  No one else seemed to drive anywhere.  Just us.  So, watching all the white folks file into the bus to go do whatever white people do, was always a spectacle.)   As we headed back to get some lunch everyone in the bus seemed jolly and normal.  However, I was still in shock over seeing this body carried through the church.  I could not help but start to wonder things like, why wasn't he stiffer seeming?  Did they have to do something in order to be sure he wasn't stinky?  Would he stay in that room until they could get a casket?   Was the family present?  How did they stay so calm?  Why doesn't anyone else seem bothered by this?  How can I possibly go eat lunch now?  After what seemed like forever, Paul (bless his heart) learned in and whispered to me, “Did that just happen?”  

“I know. right?!!!!”

      I looked at Nicola, our fearless leader, and informed her that a little more warning would have been helpful!  She looked a bit confused.  So, Paul asked her what the deal was with the dead body.  Nicola started laughing.  I was thinking that was an odd response but to each his own!  She explained that there is a person who has epilepsy in the church.  They were having a seizure so they were being carried into the next room to be helped and recover.  

A week later we went to the same church. This sweet person had another seizure and was carried once again to the side room. Nicola turned and looked at me with the perfect combination of smirking friend but also that look moms are so good at, "what is wrong with you?!"

What was different this year?

The question I have gotten the most is, “What was different this year than last year?”.  I know I gave away the big answer yesterday, but there is more to tell!  

As I mentioned, the people of Bugenyuzi are different.  The ramifications of them being healthier is huge.  It made me chuckle one night as we had our team debrief.  One member said their favorite part of the day was seeing the moms interact with their babies.  I had noticed this too but for a different reason.  Last year, the moms had very little interaction (that I noticed in the short time we were there) with the children except if it was time to nurse or if the mom wanted to get a photo or a handout.  

typical gathering of  the women last year

It seems a couple things are in play.  First, the moms are not dying.  If you consider last year 3 in 4 moms died in childbirth, then obviously there were not many moms that were able to interact with their children.  Second, the babies are not dying.  There is less need to put up barriers to protect yourself from the devastation of losing a child.  There is freedom to bond.  Astounding when you think about it.

I never saw the women gathered off on their own this year.  They were always among all the others and typically with a baby in tow.

There was certainly a sense of intrigue and reservation last year.  They were skeptical about why we were there and what would happen next.  We did not know how they would receive us or what they would expect of us.  They were watching us and we were watching them.  This year it was clear that we were friends.  We were free to enjoy life together because there was no question of our motives or what our love would cost them.

Our relationship with Harvest for Christ was different.  Last year our relationship was more business.  We were deciding if they were a group we felt we could invest in, trust, and partner with.  They were figuring out the same for us.  We did not know what to expect of or from each other.  This year we are in love with their ministry and we found that they put a lot of confidence in us.  (AKA we came back and they worked us hard!)

Another big difference was me.  Although 10 days in Africa a year ago did not make me an expert, it did give me a foundation to build on for a return.  This time, I was not shocked by what I saw.  My heart was already broken and I had a year to mull over all the things I wished I had done and asked.  I was not worried about the food, the bugs (ok, maybe a little bit), the weather, clothing, malaria pills, sleeping conditions, showers, translators, pictures, etc.

As much as I hate to admit it and although this was not my heart at the time, last year was probably more about me than it ended up being about them.  I did not mean for it to be.  I chose to go because I felt strongly that God was asking me to go.  I wanted to share His love with people who are not shown any love.  Unfortunately, after I got there, it was suddenly about how I felt, if I would get a shower, how I slept, what I could teach them, what God was teaching me, what I was grateful for, and how my life was forever changed.

I suppose an element of the motivation for this years mission was still about me. It's because of how I feel, my heart is broken and I am absolutely in love with this village, that would prompt me to return.  I guess most of what we do is based on how we feel or what we get out of things.  If we are honest, too little in our lives is actually purely unselfish.  

God can use anyone and I know I am not a savior.  He could send many people in my place to accomplish as much if not more.  Yet, I wanted to be the lucky one that got to go and He seemed to be up for the challenge.  This year, I was aware that my return was more a gift to me than it was to Africa.  So with a concerted effort toward humility, I was glad to bypass much of the culture shock and try to focus less on myself and more on the people I went to serve.  I suppose that is the constant battle and prayer of my life.  More of Him and less of me.

So what was different this year than last year?  Oh, you know, everything.  

My One Story

Unbelievably, I have been home for 2 weeks.   A friend asked me if I had a few minutes to tell her some stories.  "Of course!"  I finally left an hour later.  There is really no way to sit for five minutes and sum up what is going on in Africa and my love for it.  However, among all the smaller stories, there does seem to be a bigger picture that I would love to share.  If I could only tell one story, this would be it.

After a couple days in the city of Bujumbura, we finally traveled up country several hours to our village of Bugenyuzi.  I was like a kid on Christmas morning.  It was all I could do to not squeal aloud.  I had traveled halfway across the world and now I was seconds away from being reunited with the piece of my heart that I had left last year.  

 

As we passed through villages near ours, others in the bus would ask, "are those the Batwa?"  "No."  "Is that them?"  "No."  Suddenly, Paul and I proclaim at the same time, "There they are!!!!"  I had forgotten how easy they were to spot.  The rags they wear and the dirt on their bodies are a chilling dissemblance.  My heart was doing flips inside me.  A year of waiting.  The bus came to a stop and the beauty of the familiar mountains, huts, and little faces let me know I was at my home away from home.  The crowd of children surrounding the bus started singing, "God is so good" just as we had taught them last year.  Everyone around me seemed to be waiting for directions but I could simply wait no longer!   With tears in my eyes I was the first to step out of the bus.  I gave countless hugs and quickly felt little hands clasping mine.  "Amahoro!  Amahoro!  Amahoro!"  (Peace.  Peace.  Peace.)  As I looked in the eyes of both children and adults I instantly knew, I was in the same place with the same people but everything had changed.  They were healthier.

Bebe last year

Bebe this year

If I left for home after that moment it would have been worth the trip.  A year ago we walked into a village of people who were dying.  3 in 4 women died in childbirth.  Most children died before turning 5.  This year the story is life.  All your prayers.  All your money.  All your love.  Over the last year, God used it all and packaged it up into the gift of health.   One man said, “Our women are not dying anymore.  If this is all that you do for us, it is enough.”   Thankfully that is not all that God has planned for them.  But isn’t that the way of God, when we see no light at the end, suddenly God shows up and does abundantly more than we could ever ask or imagine.  

Freedom

      Our last morning in Burundi we were rushing around trying to get in all the last minute sights and gifts before flying out that afternoon.  It was down to a few hours before I headed home and I had no idea what I would bring for the kids.  We had not gotten the chance to really think about it before then.  It was not like we could swing by the Batwa Gift Shop.  We had one more place to stop though.  Jeunesse Sans Frontieres.

     It was breathtaking.  The shop was behind a gated wall.  As we walked in the door we saw several women sewing in the front room.   There was something about the women there and I was most likely the only person who noticed.

      Back up with me for a little side story.  The first full day we were in Burundi we were getting the history, do's and don'ts etc.  When you shake hands do it like this.  Don't give the people anything.  Use hand sanitizer, but be very discrete about it.  Don't forget to take toilet paper with you.  Never leave your things unattended.  Do not to wear too much jewelry.  After the meeting, I asked our host, Simeon, what he thought about my nose ring.  He said, "well, I really like it but it may be best to take it out."  Ok.  No big deal.  Before I had a chance to take it out, I struck up a conversation with Simeon's wife Lizzie.  I mentioned that I had to go take this nose ring out.  She said, "Thanks for doing that.  We don't want people to think you're a prostitute!"  Ha Ha!  No we sure do not!  Simeon could have been a little more clear.

       Fast forward to the the last day at that little shop.  I noticed most of the women in the room had nose rings.  It made me smile because I knew what that meant.   I am sure some were trafficked in, some chose it out of desperation, some as a result of suffering tremendous pain from the genocide, and others grandfathered in.  Regardless of why, reasons you and I may never really understand, these women found themselves living a life of prostitution.  But, (doesn't God do amazing things after that word!) I was in a room full of women who were changing their stories.

     Jeunesse Sans Frontieres means Youth Without Borders.  It is a vocational school created to help young people in Burundi like demobilized child soldiers and young prostitutes.  They train them in mechanics or sewing for 4-6 months.  Then they are placed in various garages or tailoring workshops in the city of Bujumbura.  They not only give them a way to make a living but they also introduce them to Christ and begin to heal their wounded hearts.  http://www.cathedral.ca/outreach/cathedral-burundi-mission/

       We weaved our way through the rows of machines to find the merchandise in the back room.  It was amazing how many different things were made from those machines.  Big bags, little bags, padded bags, headbands, stuffed animals, book covers, (did I mention bags?) aprons, pants, and I swear I even saw an IPad cover.  (Can you image that conversation?  "What am I making?"  "What is going in this?")

      We were all scurrying about, often hoping the person beside us would set down the bag they had chosen so we could snatch it up.  I am not joking.  While I was walking around, the exact kind of bag I was looking for was right next to me.  Sadly, it was on the arm of Mike.  The fact that I was about to spend 30 hours on a plane with him kept me civil.  I shed a tear and moved on.  A few minutes later, from across the room, I noticed he was no longer hoarding it!  I walked as quickly as I could without drawing attention to myself to where I last saw him with it.  It was not there.  I dug around and suddenly as if a spotlight from Heaven had shone down (insert angelic voices singing) I saw it.  Yes, it is now in my home :)

     My shopping was complete.  I had gotten my sweet bag and a couple things for my girls.  As with most of my time in Africa I found myself living like a native,  as if it were normal for me to be shopping for bags at a store filled with ex-prostitutes.   So while the others finished up I was able to step outside of myself to observe the incredible beauty and magnitude of this place.  I wish you could have seen the smiles on the faces of these beautiful women who had know so much of life that I have never seen.  The joy of grace.  The hope of the future.

     It was then that I saw him.

       One of the ladies sewing had with her a baby who must have been about 9 months old.  I watched him and wondered what his story was in just the short time he had been alive.  Was he born as the result of a mom who 18 months earlier was stuck in prostitution?  Was he born to a mom who had found a new life with an honest man?  I have no idea.   What I did know was that I was looking in the eyes of a child that was planned and created by a God of grace.  It no longer mattered what circumstances he was born into.  His life was radically altered for eternity because his mom found Jesus and said yes.  Freedom.  Grace at its finest.

         Why God would extend His grace to any of us is a mystery.  I guess one day we will understand but for now I will be content in my confusion and be thankful for the life that I do not deserve.

Thankful for Coke

     I like my caffeine like most of you, but this is not a story about caffeine deprived Americans who finally found a place to calm the nerves.

     This is one of those times that I should had taken a picture but it just did not seem so obvious at the time.  We were treated to getting a Fanta or Coke most days.  It was never cold, yet it was a welcomed refresher.  As we were being served our drinks during lunch, one of the bottles with orange Fanta looked like it had been drug behind whatever truck delivered it.  As we began to look around we noticed all the bottles were a bit questionable.  It should have occurred to me that there was more than meets the eye when they told us to wipe off the rim of the bottle before we drank out of it.  I have no idea what I thought they meant.  The mere exposure to African air would contaminate our precious American bodies?  

    I am not sure how green you think you are but my green has limits.  They would reuse those pop bottles over and over and over.  Some of them seemed like they had been used for years!  I bet they had a date of manufacture on them somewhere.  We could have had a prize for the oldest bottle.  I know we can recycle glass but I guess I thought the things we recycled would reincarnate into lower forms.  Like, glass from a beautiful bay window would reincarnate to the glass of a car windshield. That would reincarnate into the glass in a picture frame.  The frame into a lamp globe.  The globe into a watch face and then into a light bulb.  When it finally hit the bottom of the line they would send it to Burundi to be turned into the coke bottles.  Those things were on their last leg but holding on for dear life.   It was like when you see Jamie Lee Curtis doing the Activia commercials.  I guess you do whatever you can to stay alive!

     As with most things, I took those moments of dubious refreshment for granted.   After church on Sunday we were escorted into what I was guessing to be the parsonage.  There were chairs lining the room so we filed in and found a spot to land.  We had no idea what was going to happen.  After 3 hours of church what could be left to discuss?  Next thing I knew, out came the red crates and old fashion bottle opener.  Coke and Fanta.  After a good wipe down we were about to start drinking when the pastor stood up.  My goodness, a toast for us?!  He said, "Let's thank God for our drinks."  I love my Dr Pepper, but I am not sure I ever stopped to say a prayer of thanks on my way out of the Sonic drive thru.

     The things we take for granted here.  We need God to do something big in order for us to stop and thank Him.  It's as if in order to give Him credit, He has to do something big enough that only God could do, otherwise the credit may not be His and we can't give credit where credit is not due.  They get an abused bottle that half of Burundi has drank out of and then stop to give thanks.  I guess the verse says ALL good things are from above.  Not just the ones that "wow" us.
   

Uhhh, Good Morning

     After such a long entry yesterday, I thought today could be light hearted and well, shorter.

     When we were not in Bugenyuzi (the village) we were in Bujumbura (the big city).  We stayed in a place that had me reminiscing about my college years when I spent all summer at church camps.  There was a building for eating, a building for sleeping, and a building for bathrooms.  Each bedroom had either a few twin size beds or bunk beds, all covered in a fancy princess like canopy that some refer to as a mosquito net.  My roommates and I had the pleasure of sharing a table and even a fan.  As if that were not enough, each room also had a few resident lizards.  Had I not been so shocked and worried about the little guys slipping into my suitcase for the ride home,  I would have given them names.  Good times.

    The dinning hall was fabulous really.  There was a kitchen area that I never had to enter.  My family thinks the magic food fairy lives at our house, but nope, evidently it lives in Burundi.  Who knew?  The eating area was outdoors.  It had a roof but was not all the way enclosed.  Al Fresco every meal!  Fantastic!  The bathrooms were mostly a nice surprise.  The showers were cold but worked.  The toilets were functioning and complete.  Each shower and toilet had its own stall.  What more could one ask for in Africa?!  We quickly divvied up rooms and designated which side was the boys bathroom and which was the girls.  Not too bad for a home away from home.

         Sadly, our accommodations were only temporary.  The next morning we left for the village.  We stayed about 15 minutes out of Bugenyuzi.  The bedrooms were about the same as before, but the bathrooms were slightly different.  Our toilet had half of a seat while others had none and you never knew when it would flush.  The showers consisted of a bucket of water.  I suppose still an upgrade from the village we were about to enter.

     Being partially clean and still unsure how to use a toilet without a seat we were able to return to Bujumbura where our luxury nets, showers and toilets awaited us.  We were all pretty exhausted and went to sleep rather quickly.  Friday morning when I woke up I left my room to go enjoy a full toilet seat.  So nice, and it flushed!  I left the little stall and walked by the sink where a older man was brushing his teeth.  Through the spit and foam I think he looked at me and slurred out, "Good morning".

Keep walking, make no eye contact, "Uhhh, Good Morning".

     I walked rather quickly back to my room.  "There is a guy in our bathroom!"  Donna and Anna looked at me only slightly concerned.  Anna said, "well, if he was brushing his teeth, then I bet he is almost done and you can take a shower."  Thanks Anna.  Maybe taking advice from a teen was a bad idea.  I paced my room, which was more like spinning in place, and waited to see the intruder walk out.  I told the girls I was going back in.  I grabbed my shower items and clothes and boldly took off.  As soon as I walked in the door I was face to face with a guy covered only by a skimpy towel.  I noticed his eyes were rather large at this point but I did not stay long enough to see the size of anything else.  Thanks to my marching band days, I was able to quickly do a perfectly executed about face and get the heck out of dodge!

     The whole team was trying to figure out what to do.  We came to the conclusion that we would just switch sides with our boys and call it good.  But God bless Gary.  He was talking to the other team that was staying there and he asked how their stay was going.  The guy that was brushing his teeth last I saw him said, "It is great, except I can't get over the coed bathrooms!"  In a gentle tender way that only Gary could do, he told them that actually there are two sides to the building and the other side is the boys.

     Note to self, add "Girls Bathroom" and "Boys Bathroom" signs to the packing list.