Home visit

We have really enjoyed getting to know our Arabic teacher, Elder Charles Peter during our lessons. We hear about his family, his neighborhood, and his work as a missionary, showing the Jesus film and preaching in various parts of town. In Africa you don’t need to wait for an invitation, so one day we told him that we wanted to visit his home. “Wonderful!” He replied in Arabic, “My wife will make kudra for you. It is delicious!”

Last week the big day came. We took two different buses out to Gudele, a district near the edge of town. We met him on a busy street corner, and then took a rickshaw (a three-wheeled covered contraption that holds 4 people) down a dirt road until we reached his neighborhood. Then, a short walk, where we were thrilled to see grass and flowers along the sides of the road and streams that bisect the road (and swell to make them impassable when it rains). In the middle of town where we live in a 4-story building, we are a little starved for nature, so it felt very refreshing to be reminded of what a more typical neighborhood looks like.

Bob and Charles on the road in Gudele - Enjoying the green!

When we reached the house, we met his wife, son, nephew, and a few neighbors. We were ushered into the
house, and we enjoyed the chance to finally talk with his wife who we had heard so much about. We looked through pictures from their wedding and early years together. We heard more of their experience in Malakal in 2013, when war erupted and they were forced to flee, leaving all of their household possessions to be looted by the invading soldiers. They lived in a UN camp for a few weeks, sleeping under only a tarp, until a friend helped to evacuate them to Uganda. They returned to South Sudan because of a commitment to God’s work here, and their persevering hope and sacrifice to make the gospel known is humbling. Most of our conversation was in Arabic, which meant that sentences had to be repeated sometimes or new words clarified, but still a victory to be able to connect meaningfully in our new language!
Then, lunch was served and the awaited kudra was brought in. Kudra are leaves that are ground and cooked to make a thick green soupy mixture, often with chunks of meat included in it. In Juba kudra is eaten with a starch like kisra (similar to Ethiopian injira) or asiida (like ugali in East Africa). Charles Peter was right—it really was delicious, and Mama Wigdan was vigilant to make sure that our plates were never empty until we were stuffed and protesting that we couldn’t possibly eat any more.

Eating kudra for the first time – a favorite dish in South Sudan

After that great meal, we realized clouds were gathering and we should start the journey home. Charles accompaied us back to the main road, rode the first bus with us and even paid our fare on the second bus back to our part of town. With Bob’s energy still low because of the virus, big outings like this feel very special and appreciated. We felt so grateful for wonderful people like Charles Peter and Wigdan who exemplify to us the warm hospitality of the South Sudanese people.

With Charles Peter and Wigdan, at their home

Sitting with Suffering

We Americans have many natural gifts and talents derived from the strengths of our culture.  We are good “fix it” people.  If there is a problem, we are right on it.  A natural disaster happens, a flood, a hurricane, and we have already mobilized first responders even before the catastrophe happens.  Months and even years later we give money and our time to help those in need.  We are creative problem solvers who cannot live with intolerable suffering in our midst.  On the other side of the pendulum, on the negative side, lies our propensity to shield ourselves from the pain of others, because often we cannot identify with their suffering.  When someone we know is in pain, we may try to placate the situation with statements such as – “Just give it time, things will get better soon enough.”

We, Americans, are good at "fixing things," but not always
good at sitting with suffering

Having lived in places like Rwanda, Congo, and now South Sudan, I have come to realize that our American propensity to fix things and to avoid pain with polite half-truisms will only take one so far.  What happens when the problem can’t be fixed, or be fixed expeditiously and efficiently?  What if time isn’t enough to heal generational wounds?  Here in Juba, South Sudan, it feels like every day we are bombarded from all sides with needs.  Every time we step out of our building we are accosted multiple times by men, women, and young children who have the look of hunger and hopelessness in their eyes.  They ask for a handout but obviously they need so much more.  How can one “fix” this problem?  What words will ever be enough?  Last week Susan, one of the cleaners of our building, came up to Kristi and grasped her hair, saying, “God must love you White People.  He gives you nice, soft hair and a good life.  God must love you more than the rest of us!”  Kristi, understandably, was at a loss for words.  How does one respond to such an honest lament?  How does one respond to the inherent injustices of our world, a warped world which favors some to the exclusion of others?

Two years ago I was asked to provide time for theological reflection for a divinity student named John who had come to Congo on a summer internship.*  Every few weeks John and I would sit down and reflect together on what he was seeing and learning.  In one particularly poignant session, we reflected on the nature of suffering.  John told me that the suffering he was confronted with in Congo made him want to turn and run.  The suffering John was witnessing was simply intolerable to his American, white, middle class sensibilities.  Yet, as we sat together with the Scriptures and in a posture of prayer, we came to see that Jesus was unique in that he was able and willing to sit with people in their suffering.  He did not turn and run from them.  This theological reflection became an object lesson for both John and I, that sitting with people in their suffering is a form of ministry, even when we are unable to fix their pain and don’t have the words to make things better.      

This lesson has become even more poignant to me on a deeply personal level over the last three months as I have been diagnosed with the Epstein-Barr Virus, an illness which has rendered me weak and tired, an illness which lingers and can last months and even longer.  It has been difficult for me and others to understand that this sickness has no medicine and no defined time frame for improvement.  It feels like there is no real "fix" to this ailment - just time and rest and a good diet.  I am thankful for many of you who have expressed both lament and support through this period.    

Beyond my own ailment, so often I feel rather helpless here in South Sudan.  I cannot fix the multitudinous problems and my words will never be enough.  What I can do, as I am learning even from my own situation of pain, is to simply sit with people in their suffering.  I can bless and serve them by looking them in the eyes and seeing them as human beings worthy of dignity and honor.  Of course I can also pray for healing and change and seek to find long term solutions, but perhaps what is most needful in the moment by moment realities of everyday life is to just accompany people, sitting with them in their pain, and being present to them with their questions.  Sitting with suffering, I believe, is what God is calling us to do, above and beyond what our cultural instincts might tell us.  Lord Jesus, may we heed this call. 

*John is a pseudonym for the divinity student mentioned.    

   

             

Learning, like little children

I am repeatedly reminded of the similarities between us as language learners and very young children as they are learning to talk. When we walk the streets of Juba and greet someone we know, other heads turn in amusement. “You speak Arabic?” they ask. When we say yes, we are learning Arabic, people are excited, and often want to quiz us on what we know. One fruit vendor pointed to different fruit “what is this? And this one?”, celebrating the ones I knew and correcting the ones that I had forgotten. And then they might rattle off some question that we don’t understand at all. When we ask them to repeat and slow down, they happily comply, simplifying the language so that we are more likely to catch the meaning.

We enjoyed a long talk in Arabic with Santos about life, family, and farming –
using lots of gestures and props to help when words were lacking.

One of our favorite places to practice has been Mary’s friendly tea stall across the street. The tea stall only has room for about 8 people, all facing each other. It is a great atmosphere for conversation, and often everyone gets engaged in the conversation. It is rather humbling and embarrassing when other conversations stop as people ask about why we are in Juba, where we are from, etc. We have met some wonderful people and patient teachers on our random visits there. Many people patiently repeat what they are trying to communicate or help to correct our pronunciation—just like you might for a two-year old. When we manage to use a word or phrase that is an idiom, or is perceived as beyond our beginner level, people laugh and exclaim and praise us—just like you would for a precocious young child. And then, of course, there are the times when people talk ‘over’ us, conversing about us while we are left guessing what they are saying. Or going back to their ‘real’ conversations while we listen and observe and just guess at what they are discussing—just like children overhearing bits of the ‘adult’ conversation!

Mary, making tea for us at her tea stall

Most people we encounter are amused and affirming of our desire to learn Juba Arabic…even when we make mistakes. When we are trying to say something but have the words bumbled up or the wrong pronunciation, they are patient with us as we search for words or try to explain until they finally understand and laugh at our mis-pronunciation or wrong words. We are grateful that we can provide some amusement, and also grateful that people are willing to be patient with us and help us learn…just like adults do for young children!

And we DO make plenty of mistakes. Here are a couple of our recent faux-pas.:

During a language lesson, Bob got  call from a man who wanted us to come visit. “Let me talk to Kristi”, Bob said in Arabic, and then meant to say “then I will call you back”. Except that the word “call” in Juba is the same words as to ‘beat’ or ‘hit’ something. So without the right conjunction, what Bob said was “then I will beat you”. Our language teacher, listening to the conversation, corrected him and then burst out laughing at the difference. Lesson learned!

I was sitting outside with two women, Umi and Mary, one evening. I mentioned an area of town where we had visited a church, called in Arabic “the Arab neighborhood” because historically there was a concentration of Arabs there. Except that I did not remember the name correcty, and instead said, essentially, “The neighborhood of the long white robes”. Similar word and similar concept, but they found it a rather amusing slip. Umi roasts and sells pumpkin seeds on the street, so she offered some to Mary and I as we chatted. I was happily chewing mine, when Mary asked me “Kristi, where are your shells of the seeds?” I realized then that she was spitting them out, and I was swallowing them. Oops! They laughed again at my naivete, but I am so grateful for they were willing to point out my mistakes and help me learn.

It feels like this is a sweet ‘period of grace’ in our language learning. After three years, we will no longer be the novel new people, and will not be shown the same grace and patience with language that we are today. We hope that with the help and correction of many ‘elders’ around us, we will improve and mature in our ability to communicate in Arabic.