I think I am probably the safest American in Uganda. Honestly.
Recently, while at the church in Kivulu, I got some news that made me both very upset and angry. So angry that (to my complete embarrassment) I began to cry. Now, programs had not started yet, so the only boys around were some of the older ones. These are the "tough guys", who are sometimes distant and not openly affectionate. They don't particularly engage in conversation with me, and mostly keep to themselves. Trying not to make a scene in front of them, I stepped into our container to breathe (our container is a shipping container that we keep lots of things for our programs in; the inside is for "staff only"). While hiding, I heard a tapping at the door. It was the group of older boys outside; turns out I was not fast enough, and they had seen me crying. Instead of teasing me, or joking about how upset I was, they asked me what was wrong. The conversation went like this...
Boys (very concerned): Auntie, what happened?
Me: Nothing, someone just made me really angry and hurt my feelings.
Boys: Who was it? Tell us, so we can go beat them for you! We will make them sorry for this!!
Me: No, its okay. I just need a minute to calm down. I will be okay if I can be alone for a second.
Boys: Okay, we will protect you. Nobody is allowed in the container until you're done. We will guard you!!
After that, for the next 10 min, literally nobody was allowed in the container. Not the other boys (who were helping cook, or had left bags or clothing inside while they were bathing). Not the uncles, who were pretty frustrated at being locked out when they knew I was upset inside. The boys didn't bother me, they just guarded me. When I eventually did come out, they stayed close to me for the rest of the afternoon. They didn't really talk to me, but I know they were looking out for me.
Sometimes, people think that my job leads me to dangerous places. They worry that working with street kids puts me at risk; I assure you, it is the complete opposite. There is no safer place for me in Kampala then in the slum where I work. See, street kids are their own secret society. I am beyond blessed and honored to be allowed acceptance in it. Being their own society, they are very protective- after all, if they don't look out for each other then who will? Street kids may steel and fight with other street kids, but if anyone else dares get involved they are in serious trouble! This protection applies to me as well. Furthermore, in the slum where I work, most people know me. I walk down the street, and strangers shout out "Kate, you're welcome!" They know me, and my work, and why I do it. Men may make comments, but for the most part they are not disrespectful. Once, while walking to the church, a drunk man grabbed my arm. About 4 other guys instantly stepped in, and shoved him off me. They know I am there to help, and they respect that. Also, Ugandans are just kind in that way- they look out for each other.
But beyond the average Uganda, my kids look out for me. There is never a time I feel safer or more confident than while walking with a group of my kids. They know the city better than anyone else. They know who is good, and who is bad. They don't let people disrespect me. They would honestly fight till their last breath to protect me. They are mine, and I am theirs. I take care of them. I bandage wounds, and feed them, and read to them and play games. And in return they show me their love and appreciation in their own way.
They are my little defenders, and its the greatest honor they could give me.
Recently, while at the church in Kivulu, I got some news that made me both very upset and angry. So angry that (to my complete embarrassment) I began to cry. Now, programs had not started yet, so the only boys around were some of the older ones. These are the "tough guys", who are sometimes distant and not openly affectionate. They don't particularly engage in conversation with me, and mostly keep to themselves. Trying not to make a scene in front of them, I stepped into our container to breathe (our container is a shipping container that we keep lots of things for our programs in; the inside is for "staff only"). While hiding, I heard a tapping at the door. It was the group of older boys outside; turns out I was not fast enough, and they had seen me crying. Instead of teasing me, or joking about how upset I was, they asked me what was wrong. The conversation went like this...
Boys (very concerned): Auntie, what happened?
Me: Nothing, someone just made me really angry and hurt my feelings.
Boys: Who was it? Tell us, so we can go beat them for you! We will make them sorry for this!!
Me: No, its okay. I just need a minute to calm down. I will be okay if I can be alone for a second.
Boys: Okay, we will protect you. Nobody is allowed in the container until you're done. We will guard you!!
After that, for the next 10 min, literally nobody was allowed in the container. Not the other boys (who were helping cook, or had left bags or clothing inside while they were bathing). Not the uncles, who were pretty frustrated at being locked out when they knew I was upset inside. The boys didn't bother me, they just guarded me. When I eventually did come out, they stayed close to me for the rest of the afternoon. They didn't really talk to me, but I know they were looking out for me.
Sometimes, people think that my job leads me to dangerous places. They worry that working with street kids puts me at risk; I assure you, it is the complete opposite. There is no safer place for me in Kampala then in the slum where I work. See, street kids are their own secret society. I am beyond blessed and honored to be allowed acceptance in it. Being their own society, they are very protective- after all, if they don't look out for each other then who will? Street kids may steel and fight with other street kids, but if anyone else dares get involved they are in serious trouble! This protection applies to me as well. Furthermore, in the slum where I work, most people know me. I walk down the street, and strangers shout out "Kate, you're welcome!" They know me, and my work, and why I do it. Men may make comments, but for the most part they are not disrespectful. Once, while walking to the church, a drunk man grabbed my arm. About 4 other guys instantly stepped in, and shoved him off me. They know I am there to help, and they respect that. Also, Ugandans are just kind in that way- they look out for each other.
But beyond the average Uganda, my kids look out for me. There is never a time I feel safer or more confident than while walking with a group of my kids. They know the city better than anyone else. They know who is good, and who is bad. They don't let people disrespect me. They would honestly fight till their last breath to protect me. They are mine, and I am theirs. I take care of them. I bandage wounds, and feed them, and read to them and play games. And in return they show me their love and appreciation in their own way.
They are my little defenders, and its the greatest honor they could give me.
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