jibu: give
It is difficult for me to say “no.” It is especially hard to say “no” to
someone in Africa. It seems sinister to deny anything to a dirty, underfed
child, who looks up at you with the biggest, darkest eyes. The same thing goes with that tired,
elderly man, who teaches a class of seventy students and tells you that he
doesn’t even receive chalk from the government. There is also my friend, the young woman who works so very
hard to provide for her family and is asking me for the second time this week
to buy her some nice bangles like the ones I’m wearing. Everyday I’m confronted with requests
from Sudanese people. Some people are
easier to deny, like the intoxicated men in town who ask for my phone number,
or the aggressive teens who tell me to give them my bicycle. However, most of the time, the requests
seem quite sensible, even urgent.
The greatest problem as a kawaja in South Sudan is figuring out which
things to say, “yes” to, and which things to deny, despite my breaking heart. I think to myself, “There has to be a way
for me to give to each person here in Mundri...”
Most days, if you spend enough time in the team house, you
will hear the meek calling of, “Mi kado?” or “salaam.” If you look out the
window, chances are, you won’t see anyone. You will have to open the creaky
door and look down to see some pint-sized children clustered together with
eager eyes and open hands. “afasaat?...”
(trash) they inquire. They
have walked from their homes in search of any trash that could be of use to
them. Empty bottles, used bags,
and broken electronics/kitchenware are hot items. They will take almost anything, and once they’ve had
success, they’ll share the name of their source with the rest of the Mundri
child population. To control this
onslaught of children, who come in pursuit of some plastic treasure, the team
has limited distribution to Friday mornings; now children know to show up only
at this allotted time. However, we
sometimes get the persistent ones who come at all hours of the day, any day of
the week. They stand by the door,
peer up through the windows, hover near the entrance of the compound, staring
at our every move. It can drive my
nerves to their limit when I’m trying to write a lesson plan with a group of
children staring at me, asking me to give them anything their eyes come across. “Jibu le ana waraga, galaam, gufa,
kubaiya, gumash, jena...” My “elf
on the shelf” doll is a particularly prized item that kids quickly pick out
through the screen door. We as a
team have so much more than we need and I become embarrassed that I have to say
no to a kid who has next to nothing.
To make things more difficult—I LOVE giving gifts to people. Every time I travel somewhere new I
scour out the hidden shops to find that perfect gift for a friend or family
member. It takes my best self-control
to not show up on Fatna’s compound
each Monday with a small gift like a book or nail polish. I will make baked goods for any person and any occasion. I
understand the implications of giving to African friends without thinking. It complicates relationships among Sudanese
neighbors when ex-pats choose to give certain things to only certain people. However, I still find myself
asking, “How can I show I care to my Moru friends?” I am slowly learning what it means to give of myself, and it
is much harder than handing over a neatly wrapped gift.
In African culture, time means love. Spending the day sitting with the ladies,
picking the leaves off the morenga branches, and eating g-nut paste and cassava
is love. Attending both the joyful
prayers for the new baby and also the mournful prayers of the deceased relative
is love. Taking time to stop and
simply be with the Sudanese women here is a way to give to them. This way of interaction is hard for my
overachieving self. I want to
spend my day being “productive,” doing things that show results. Unfortunately, doing something for the
end result means that I’m only thinking about my own pride. Many days I have to set aside the watch
and calendar, lather on the sunscreen, and head out to a friend’s house for an
untimed hangout session.
When working with teens, I’m often tempted to give gifts in
order to gain favor in their eyes.
However, I’ve been trying to step away from the desire to be liked and
work towards simply giving of myself.
I act as unofficial drama coordinator at my church, recruiting youth,
directing the staging, and corralling the actors together at the time of the
performance. At times, actors
don’t show up, groups of teens talk through the church service, and lead
characters decide they don’t want to speak above a whisper. It looks like chaos to an outside
observer, but, to me, it is a way to give to some otherwise disinterested
adolescents.
My favorite way to give here in Mundri is to share
knowledge. The schools here in
South Sudan have so little and face so much that I jump at any opportunity to
hold workshops for drained and underprepared teachers. At the beginning of teacher trainings
we do give each participant a bag of school supplies; however, the rest of the
week we are filling the teachers’ hearts with confidence—confidence that they
can speak in English, confidence that that they can plan creative lessons,
confidence that they do the task the Lord has set them to do, because He will sustain them. It is the most tiring, emotionally
draining week of the year for me, and it is totally worth it.
My pride is hurt by the reality that I’m not the most
cheerful giver. Some days I don’t
want to teach the lesson, I can’t bring myself to enter into that long
conversation in Arabic, I feel frustrated with the culture and the individuals
with whom I’ve chosen to surround myself.
It would be much easier to just drop off a bag of cookies at someone’s
hut and say, “salaam.” But God
calls me to give in a way that dies to my comfort level. Paul reminds us to,
“Be imitators of God…and live a life of
love, just as Christ loved us
and gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering
and sacrifice to God.” –Eph. 5:1,2
When I think of the ultimate gift of a life for a soul, I’m
compelled to give of menial things like my time, energy, and mind (which I tend
to hold with an iron fist, regardless of the fact that they already belong to
the Lord). Yes, I am learning what
it means to “give” here in Africa—not because I’m some sort of martyr, but
because my God prods me, teaches me, and emboldens me all along the way.
Each man should give what he has decided in his heart to
give,
not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver.
-2 Cor. 9:7
