O Come, O Come Emmanuel

I have made some pretty funny promises in my life.  But my recent one to an orphan named Emmanuel really came back to bite me… and I am not in the business of breaking promises to orphans.

Meet Emmanuel.  Emmanuel is a perfectly perfect twelve year old boy.  I love him dearly.  Emmanuel and six other boys became too old to stay at their home orphanage in the city last year. The orphanage houses all children below ten and only teenage girls.  When the boys get too old at this particular home, they are sent to other orphanages.  This is an attempt to keep poorly supervised teen boys separate from poorly supervised teen girls. While these policies seem very appropriate, it often separates siblings.  In Emmanuel’s case, no home could be found for them.  They waited for months until suddenly one morning in February they were told, “You’re leaving within the hour. Pack yourselves and get ready.”

In an atypical move, the boys were shipped out of the city to a village an hour away.  Each boy lost at least one sibling, and in one case, two twins were separated for the first time in their lives. Heartbroken is a placid word here for orphans whose only concept of family centered around a brother or sister.  Most of these boys had lived their whole life in the city and went through a great deal of change in schooling, language, and lifestyle as a result of their new surroundings.  The transition was not easy, but the hardest part for many seemed to be their split with siblings.

In March we took a bus of orphans from the city orphanage out to the village to reunite everyone.  Though not all of the children were allowed to come, it was an amazing magical day for those involved.  We had a picnic, played together and toured the boys’ new home.  But the day was short and the boys have not seen their siblings since.  This is where Emmanuel comes in…

Emmanuel is not a drama queen; he is not loud.  Whenever I visit his orphanage, he clings to me and bawls. Quiet, streaming tears, from the time I come to the time I leave. And always, always, he asks about his sister.  In November, with happy gracious permission of the head nun, I promised a crying Emmanuel that I would pick him up two weeks later to take him back to the city to visit his old orphanage.  Before I had even left the property, all six other boys had surrounded us, wanting to come, too.  How were their brothers? How were there sisters? Oh they had to go! More promises were made.

When I returned to the city and spoke to a number of individuals to orchestrate another magical day, I hit a brick wall.  Not only was it clear I could not bring my 7 kids in to visit, but it was clear I could not get their siblings out.  I’m going to save the discussion on spite for another time, but let me just say that I have never seen it so greatly as in the hands of a few powerful orphanage “mothers” who have little skill at mothering.  We could not disappoint these kids.  I had to keep my word.

“Make plan,” we call it in Zim.  Go another route, find another way.

We headed back to the orphanage an hour away.  We refused to not keep our promise and have seven boys waiting for our non-arriving car.  We spoke to Emmanuel again, this time promising a day full of surprises if he could only wait an extra week.  We returned to the city. Then we scrambled.

Putting together a large Christmas party at the school was not hard, but it was rushed.  We transported every child we could from the city orphanage in the name of a Christmas party… but little did any orphan know that some of their brothers and sisters would be waiting at the party to spend the afternoon with them! 

A tiny promise snowballed into an exhausting party for one hundred hungry, excited children.  But I can’t think of a better reason to have a Christmas party.   

Biggest thanks to our friend Laura, who helped with every item, to the Mullen family for four extra hours of driving and a donation of one hundred ice cream cups, to the many people who donated a fantastic spread of food and supplies, and to those who shared their time and open arms.  Here are some pictures of one special day:

 

Emmanuel, Jonas, and Lovemore

We had a little time to spare before the party, so we took our seven to a special play-place called Tamba-Tamba.  Though the boys should be on the cusp of being too old, they had a blast experiencing something so new and foreign to them. 

 The boys had been doing gardening chores all morning at the orphanage until our arrival.  We filled their stomachs as soon as possible. 


What a great time. Our seven: Tawanda, Munashe, Lovemore, Emmanuel, Tristen, Kudakwashe, and Reason


Reuniting at the school in the name of a Christmas party.


Friend Gil and her favorites spend some quality time together. 
Want to hear a horrible story?  The little boy pictured above in the striped blue shirt, Samuel, became an orphan as an infant when his mother died. But he was not at the orphanage last year at this time because the lucky guy had been adopted! His adopted mother then died a few months ago. Uggh. And now here he is.  Back again. Orphaned twice.

The kids ate and ate and ate.  No matter now much we brought, I knew there would be no leftovers!

Full tummies on the menu!

We set up a cookie-decorating station for the kids.  This is probably the one and only time in their lives they guys will have this opportunity.  It was a fun way for us Americans to share a Christmas tradition... and the sprinkles could not have been a bigger hit!

Julie, Luke, and Amy shelter under the cafeteria roof during our 15 minutes of rain.

Emmanuel and his sister

HIFA

I drug my feet.   Everyone was making such a big deal about it, its been terribly cold, and my three year old enjoys neither smoking in public or mosh pits (that I know of).  We went at the last minute anyway...

So glad we did - such fun! 

HIFA, an international arts festival, entertains the affluent art loving masses of our capitol city (and then us) for a little over a week once each fall. It was the biggest organized event of the month, possibly the year, to many people in my African country.  Embassies located in the city sponsor artists to represent their country in performing arts that range from music to acrobatics.  The performances are then shown in the city's largest park, taking place on four stages.  Some shows are free; others make for high priced tickets.  Locals go crazy for HIFA, lining up en mass to buy as many tickets as they can get their hands on for a week of entertainment.  Many locals speak of HIFA like a drug, (seriously, like in a strange, creepy way) taking in multiple shows every day to the point of exhaustion and empty pockets to get their year long fix of culture. 

 

Though performances go late into the night, we took in a daytime show with our three year old and some friends. We saw an amazing musical act from Australia that we will absolutely have to see again if the stars align next year.

All sorts of arts, local handmade goods, festival foods, and random giant puppets completed the experience.

My favorite part... The garbage cans made of garbage!!

Bush Breakfast

 

When I suggested to Kurt that we try making a traditional African breakfast on the fire, his eyebrows raised.  But when I told him that in the bush and among rangers in the national parks they cooked on shovels, I then watched his eyes roll.

"Seriously?  I am not eating off of a shovel.  You are crazy," he'd said.

It took a few months, and large number of following eye rolls, but I convinced him finally.  We decided to try our experimental meal at brunch with a set of good friends and their good humored visiting relatives.

So much fun. 

 Extra credit points for Julie, the brave one who jumped in first!

Bush breakfasts vary, but often have a British flair to them... On the menu?  Always cooked tomatoes (standard element of an English breakfast), eggs, chipolata sausage, and pancakes.  Delicious and highly recommended.  But don't forget to wash your shovel first...

UN Day

I am a sentimental  sap on a regular basis, but seriously.  It was moving.

Kurt's school celebrated the 65 countries its students reign from in fine fashion last week, with an afternoon of performances, songs and dance, a flag parade, and 40+ tables of food from all over the world.  It was more than enough to feed the 400+ people in attendance.  

Here students line up to present their countries flags and give a greeting on stage in their native language.

The student from each country who has attended the school the longest gets to carry the flag- an exciting honor for these guys!

 

Flags and more flags

Here the sister school of HIS visits from a local village to put on the most fun of dance displays. The eleventh graders at HIS do frequent community service projects at the sister school and do fundraising for books and equipment to be used there.

European and Indian tables above... My favorites were here, but Jonas's favorite foods were sausages from the South African tables... he may have eaten nine of them...seriously.

Kurt (on drums) and three of his coworkers were (happily) roped into playing two songs during the entertainment afterward... One of their students wrote a song for the occasion, which the teachers helped him to edit in preparation for their performance.  The student introduced them lightheartedly as"Africa's newest boy band!"  The second song they played was "A Little Help From My Friends" by the Beatles.

Tried for over a day to upload the video, to no avail... my technology headache of the week!

Husband Kurt on drums

Though Kurt used to drum all the time in Iowa and NYC, he has not gotten the opportunity during Jonas' lifetime.  Jonas (left) was tickled to watch.