We are well, and thriving in France, but grieved by what we have seen in Kenya, and for our friends who lived in a once peaceful nation that has been torn apart. Our latest updates are that my parents are in Eldoret and are safe. They were away during the worst of the violence, attending a wedding in a remote part of Kenya unaffected by the turmoil in Eldoret. We have also heard that Kipkaren was not spared in the chaos.
We can do nothing but pray. I’m not sure if I would rather sit in France feeling powerless to help, or in Kenya; but we believe in God’s timing, and also believe that true peace comes from God; it seems like humans really fail at it.
So back to France, here we are. We live in an apartment of 3 tiny dorm rooms—two bedrooms and a kitchen. Tovah and Lami share a room and have spent their time playing in the two refrigerator boxes I found for them. Jen and I share a room too :)
The kitchen is filled with French chocolate, cheese, fresh bread, and lots of fruit (plus 500 Kenyan teabags we brought).
Elami goes to garderie during our classes, and seems to enjoy it. Tovah goes to Ecole Maternalle (nursery) and absolutely loves it; she is smiling when we drop her off, and dancing when we pick her up. French does not seem to be a barrier to our girls’ happiness.
We attend classes morning and afternoon, sitting with 8 other beginners wrapping our mouths around words that are spelled like dog but said like “jzwekyirtzh” and the like. So far we can conjugate 4 verbs, say the alphabet, and count to 10 billion (and the decimal places.)
The French are a lovely people (unlike what you hear.) They are polite and generally willing to help. They suffer from having the worst airport in the world, and extremely long lines, and insane prices, and no one cleans up after their dogs; but all in all it is a wonderful place. We are surrounded by parks with plenty of places to play or run, great food and culture, and schedules that work well with a family. In short,we are blessed.
Our current plan is to cram French language for 6 months, to take a short trip to Kenya (and possibly Congo) in July, to spend a few months in the USA, and to be out serving In Bukavu, Congo in November. Please pray for our plans.
Sorry to the many emails I have not replied to—Our computers seem to be intent on waging war against us. This time I had to reinstall Windows Vista (which took five hours and disabled our email.) If anyone would like a phone call from us instead, let us know. We now call with Skype which is very inexpensive.
That's the news—au revoir.
God Bless,
Davis, Jen, Tovah, Elami, and the French
Showing posts with label Davis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Davis. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Thursday, September 20, 2007
ELI Congo
From Davis and Jen's update after their recent trip to visit ELI Congo:
How do you describe Congo? The city of Bukavu is a perched on several steep hills at the south end of Lake Kivu. Its streets have disintegrated into a moonscape of potholes navigated by small cars smashing their under-carriages, the big SUVs of a dozen aid organizations, and fleets of military vehicles. The UN patrols the streets with truckloads of soldiers from Uruguay, Pakistan, China, and Indonesia, in Land Rovers with machine guns on turrets. The Congolese army is also in full force, rolling through the streets in their own trucks, with soldiers also making their presence known wherever people are gathered. You often see soldiers flying around the streets packed into their jeep-like Belgian army “bombardiers” with guns and Stinger missiles bristling out of the roll-cage.
Despite the constant reminders of war in this land, it was very peaceful. We never heard gunfire, or worried for our safety. The people were very engaging and friendly and we were able to communicate with them in Kiswahili quite effectively. The people are shorter than Kenyans and commonly wear tailored African clothing instead of the 2nd-hand clothing from the West so common in Kenya.
What was striking was the resilience of the people in a country that has seen the most deadly conflict since WWII. Besides the multiple rebel movements since Congo’s colonization and independence, Bukavu was most recently turned into a war zone when it was invaded by rebels in 2004. The city shows the marks of this instability. Besides the unreliability of the infrastructure—roads, electricity, water, etc. many government workers make use of their position to make their living, as their salaries often go unpaid. The result is that you can be asked for bribes every time you make any transaction with the government.
The other result is that businesses seem unwilling to invest significantly in any large scale business, so instead it is carried out by men on the street. We were surprised to buy fuel for the car in half-liter and one-liter water bottles. The price is negotiable. When we did go to a gas station, they did not have fuel. Money is also changed on the street by men with enormous stacks of Congolese Francs—notes so dirty and broken you are sometimes uncertain of the denomination.
The few stores carry shelves of liquors from all over the world to meet the demands of the city’s soldiers but very little variety in food. Milk is only available in dried form in cans, or in packages of long-life milk at a high price. One of the costs of war was the death of 3 million cows, making milk a luxury that is imported from Uganda.
Click here for some photos from the Congo.
How do you describe Congo? The city of Bukavu is a perched on several steep hills at the south end of Lake Kivu. Its streets have disintegrated into a moonscape of potholes navigated by small cars smashing their under-carriages, the big SUVs of a dozen aid organizations, and fleets of military vehicles. The UN patrols the streets with truckloads of soldiers from Uruguay, Pakistan, China, and Indonesia, in Land Rovers with machine guns on turrets. The Congolese army is also in full force, rolling through the streets in their own trucks, with soldiers also making their presence known wherever people are gathered. You often see soldiers flying around the streets packed into their jeep-like Belgian army “bombardiers” with guns and Stinger missiles bristling out of the roll-cage.
Despite the constant reminders of war in this land, it was very peaceful. We never heard gunfire, or worried for our safety. The people were very engaging and friendly and we were able to communicate with them in Kiswahili quite effectively. The people are shorter than Kenyans and commonly wear tailored African clothing instead of the 2nd-hand clothing from the West so common in Kenya.
What was striking was the resilience of the people in a country that has seen the most deadly conflict since WWII. Besides the multiple rebel movements since Congo’s colonization and independence, Bukavu was most recently turned into a war zone when it was invaded by rebels in 2004. The city shows the marks of this instability. Besides the unreliability of the infrastructure—roads, electricity, water, etc. many government workers make use of their position to make their living, as their salaries often go unpaid. The result is that you can be asked for bribes every time you make any transaction with the government.
The other result is that businesses seem unwilling to invest significantly in any large scale business, so instead it is carried out by men on the street. We were surprised to buy fuel for the car in half-liter and one-liter water bottles. The price is negotiable. When we did go to a gas station, they did not have fuel. Money is also changed on the street by men with enormous stacks of Congolese Francs—notes so dirty and broken you are sometimes uncertain of the denomination.
The few stores carry shelves of liquors from all over the world to meet the demands of the city’s soldiers but very little variety in food. Milk is only available in dried form in cans, or in packages of long-life milk at a high price. One of the costs of war was the death of 3 million cows, making milk a luxury that is imported from Uganda.
Click here for some photos from the Congo.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Pray for Rain
Experts from a message from the Davis family, who joined ELI Kipkaren earlier this year. We've had some rain on and off, but not as much as we need. This rainy season proves to be awfully dry. Here's what Davis wrote...
"It is rainy season in Kenya, and in Kipkaren, a farming community, rain is a serious thing. Rain means food. The rows of maize growing in every field are next year’s meals—they are this society’s future. Cultural perceptions of food are so connected with availability. In America we never wonder if we will eat, instead we decide what we will eat, or where. It’s a different mentality—one where those in small towns get teased for only having 3 or 4 fast food joints to choose from. We go to one supermarket over another because “its produce is fresher” or they “have a better selection of seafood.”
Here in Kenya, which is a fertile country with one of Africa’s higher standards of living, people know exactly where their food is coming from—their gardens. So rain and drought are deeply meaningful things. People watch the skies as each day the sun passes over their maize without rain, leaving their crops a little drier. When it does rain it brings smiles—never nursery rhymes wishing it would go away.
Yesterday, my 5th grade class read a story in their text book about drought. In the story, the residents of Nyasini foolishly celebrate the end of the rains which tragically disappear for 12 months, leaving the people destitute and dying. My students understand the connection between rain and life. When they wrote their assignments, it was interesting to see how many spoke of the necessary intervention of God to end drought or said that rain was God’s blessing.
“We are not ignorant” prayed the director of the orphanage at a recent meeting. “We know how rain comes.” He is a well-spoken, well-educated man whom the children call grandfather. “We know rain is from you, God!” His college education does not keep him from pleading to God that the five acres of maize he has planted to feed the orphans will produce.
With his hands up and sweat beading on his forehead he calls on God to feed his children. In the staff meeting the foster parents sound their own opinion without bashfulness. They have done everything they can—plowing, planting, weeding; now it is up to God to water if he chooses.
Some of them have little education, while others are academic, understanding the CNN meteorologist’s explanations of barometric pressure, of winds, ocean currents, or global weather patterns. But those things seem empty. Weather is not simply scientific explanation or probability.
In the West we easily accept the odds like the “75% chance of rain today” as if the weather is simply rolling of the atmospheric dice. While our neighbors may resign themselves to the number shown on dice (today’s weather) they would never believe that the dice roll themselves.
I realize not everyone who reads our newsletters believes in God, but this mentality is a challenge to the believer or the atheist—it’s a challenge to accept how little we control in the world, and that we must blindly accept the odds, or give credit to something superior than ourselves.
So it is without spiritual skepticism or academic assurance that the people of Kipkaren, ourselves included, young and old, scholar and ignorant, humbly approach God, asking him to rain.
As the dark clouds roll past us again today without a drop released, we ask you also to consider those things in your life that you might enjoy without pondering their greater purpose. Africa reminds us how out of control life truly is, and how much we rely on the grace of God.
Thank you again for your support, prayers, and emails. You are our rain."
"It is rainy season in Kenya, and in Kipkaren, a farming community, rain is a serious thing. Rain means food. The rows of maize growing in every field are next year’s meals—they are this society’s future. Cultural perceptions of food are so connected with availability. In America we never wonder if we will eat, instead we decide what we will eat, or where. It’s a different mentality—one where those in small towns get teased for only having 3 or 4 fast food joints to choose from. We go to one supermarket over another because “its produce is fresher” or they “have a better selection of seafood.”
Here in Kenya, which is a fertile country with one of Africa’s higher standards of living, people know exactly where their food is coming from—their gardens. So rain and drought are deeply meaningful things. People watch the skies as each day the sun passes over their maize without rain, leaving their crops a little drier. When it does rain it brings smiles—never nursery rhymes wishing it would go away.
Yesterday, my 5th grade class read a story in their text book about drought. In the story, the residents of Nyasini foolishly celebrate the end of the rains which tragically disappear for 12 months, leaving the people destitute and dying. My students understand the connection between rain and life. When they wrote their assignments, it was interesting to see how many spoke of the necessary intervention of God to end drought or said that rain was God’s blessing.
“We are not ignorant” prayed the director of the orphanage at a recent meeting. “We know how rain comes.” He is a well-spoken, well-educated man whom the children call grandfather. “We know rain is from you, God!” His college education does not keep him from pleading to God that the five acres of maize he has planted to feed the orphans will produce.
With his hands up and sweat beading on his forehead he calls on God to feed his children. In the staff meeting the foster parents sound their own opinion without bashfulness. They have done everything they can—plowing, planting, weeding; now it is up to God to water if he chooses.
Some of them have little education, while others are academic, understanding the CNN meteorologist’s explanations of barometric pressure, of winds, ocean currents, or global weather patterns. But those things seem empty. Weather is not simply scientific explanation or probability.
In the West we easily accept the odds like the “75% chance of rain today” as if the weather is simply rolling of the atmospheric dice. While our neighbors may resign themselves to the number shown on dice (today’s weather) they would never believe that the dice roll themselves.
I realize not everyone who reads our newsletters believes in God, but this mentality is a challenge to the believer or the atheist—it’s a challenge to accept how little we control in the world, and that we must blindly accept the odds, or give credit to something superior than ourselves.
So it is without spiritual skepticism or academic assurance that the people of Kipkaren, ourselves included, young and old, scholar and ignorant, humbly approach God, asking him to rain.
As the dark clouds roll past us again today without a drop released, we ask you also to consider those things in your life that you might enjoy without pondering their greater purpose. Africa reminds us how out of control life truly is, and how much we rely on the grace of God.
Thank you again for your support, prayers, and emails. You are our rain."
Monday, April 30, 2007
Davis' Take on the Time in Sudan
Thank you for your prayers—I am safely back from Sudan, and one week later I am working on my fourth draft of this letter…. But how to explain Sudan?
I stood on top of the wreckage of a MIG 23 fighter jet that had been shot down during Sudan’s decades-long civil war. As I surveyed the craft now mutilated as if the object of continual vengeance of every Sudanese boy who walks by, I couldn’t help marveling at the tremendous human effort that went into this machine. I don’t know the details, but I can assume that hundreds of engineers, scientists, and researchers, plus millions of dollars went into building a machine that was designed to kill. Tremendous cost and human effort went into a machine used to shoot Dinka tribesmen, women and children, to drop bombs on villages, hospitals and schools…
During our time in Sudan we heard a lot of stories. Everyone has their own war story from a 22 year conflict that began in 1983 when the Arab-controlled government of Sudan imposed Muslim Sharia Law on the African, Christian South. When the regional southern government was dissolved, several rebel groups began fighting for an independent Sudan. The result was a war of modern weapons being used against African villagers. Elizabeth tells her story of walking with three friends when they decided to rest. Elizabeth decided to leave them briefly to see her uncle. Minutes later Antinov bombers arrived, and while she hid in a hole, her friends died on the open Bor plains. Abraham is a “Lost Boy” who ran from the bombs in the middle of the night. He told of his journey on foot, at night, to Ethiopia hundreds of miles away, only to be attacked in the refugee camp by armored vehicles and driven back into the Sudanese conflict.
So it is into this country that ELI is trying to bring empowerment. We chartered a small plane to bring us in, that was forced to land on an unintended airstrip due to bad weather. No matter, we were warmly welcomed anyway, by people who were not expecting us, and whom we had never met. Shortly after they gave us tea and prepared places for us to sleep, Stephen Reech, the Sudanese ELI director arrived with a flatbed truck to take us “home.” We said our goodbye’s to our new friends, and then spent the next couple hours bumping along a dirt road past innumerable homesteads of returning refugees. Their houses are grass thatched with short 3 foot mud walls. Also in the compound is a luak, a giant grass house made to shelter their cows, the main livelihood of the Dinka Tribe.
The ELI compound has three projects right now, all at various points of construction. First, is an agricultural training center (incomplete) being built to empower people through growing food. This is a difficult task as the Sudanese have not enjoyed enough stability to cultivate for over 20 years. Second, is a home for orphans (one building has walls and roof, not finished). The third is an elementary school—which was my primary interest, and my reason for coming. It is nothing but a roof so far, but it is well-attended by over 120 kids in grade 1-4. Obviously, in a country without infrastructure, education is only recently available, so there are very few children in the upper grades. On the day we counted we found 80 in 1st grade, 26 in 2nd, 12 in 3rd, and 5 in 4th. There are 100 more students enrolled but not present, as they are off caring for the cattle. The students sit in the dirt under the roof of their wall-less school learning numbers, letters, and reading off of the blackboard.
In these conditions I was amazed by the dedication of the teachers—4 high school graduates who all completed their studies in refugee camps outside of Sudan. I spent time talking with them, providing some teacher training, and also teaching in the school. The thermometer read over 120 F when I completed teaching a lesson on factors to 4th grade by dividing piles of rocks in the sand. I was amazed by their desire for education.
I visited 2 other schools during my time in Sudan, and found the conditions the same: unfinished, unfurnished schools, packed to capacity. One school had 70 1st graders in a classroom, and another 70 outside under a tree. The day before I left I was able to go into Bor town with Kiptoo, a Kenyan nurse (Jen’s supervisor at the clinic) where we bought 10 boards—the first furniture for this school.
I could go on and on about Sudan. Maybe if I ever get around to updating my blog I’ll tell about the 2 snakes we killed, the quart of fresh-from-the-cow unpasteurized milk I drank, of swimming with the herds boys in a water hole full of dung and littered with animal carcasses, or of visiting a man in the hospital with an AK-47 bullet wound to the head.
But Sudan was not about adventure, it was about people. I had great hope when I saw my 4th graders performing well on their math using gravel. I felt hopeless in the Bor hospital looking at toddlers whose arms were thinner than 2 of my fingers, whose legs were thinner than 3 of my fingers, but whose eyes were as big as my own daughter’s. I loved the life and energy of the machine-gun-toting men who wanted me to photograph them with their weapons and their tall, long-horned cattle, but I was sad to know that their guns also testify that peace has not come to Sudan as the Darfur genocide rages.
Sudan was incredibly different, yet when I worshiped in a packed church in a foreign language I felt right at home.
It has made me think about some things differently: What’s more valuable: a MIG 23 fighter jet or a 4th grade education? So as ELI explores its goals in Sudan, please pray for God’s wisdom. Please also pray (or act) about the bloodshed that goes on in Darfur.
I will quit there. Thanks again for your prayers. Jen and the girls did fine while I was gone too.
God Bless,
Davis
I stood on top of the wreckage of a MIG 23 fighter jet that had been shot down during Sudan’s decades-long civil war. As I surveyed the craft now mutilated as if the object of continual vengeance of every Sudanese boy who walks by, I couldn’t help marveling at the tremendous human effort that went into this machine. I don’t know the details, but I can assume that hundreds of engineers, scientists, and researchers, plus millions of dollars went into building a machine that was designed to kill. Tremendous cost and human effort went into a machine used to shoot Dinka tribesmen, women and children, to drop bombs on villages, hospitals and schools…
During our time in Sudan we heard a lot of stories. Everyone has their own war story from a 22 year conflict that began in 1983 when the Arab-controlled government of Sudan imposed Muslim Sharia Law on the African, Christian South. When the regional southern government was dissolved, several rebel groups began fighting for an independent Sudan. The result was a war of modern weapons being used against African villagers. Elizabeth tells her story of walking with three friends when they decided to rest. Elizabeth decided to leave them briefly to see her uncle. Minutes later Antinov bombers arrived, and while she hid in a hole, her friends died on the open Bor plains. Abraham is a “Lost Boy” who ran from the bombs in the middle of the night. He told of his journey on foot, at night, to Ethiopia hundreds of miles away, only to be attacked in the refugee camp by armored vehicles and driven back into the Sudanese conflict.
So it is into this country that ELI is trying to bring empowerment. We chartered a small plane to bring us in, that was forced to land on an unintended airstrip due to bad weather. No matter, we were warmly welcomed anyway, by people who were not expecting us, and whom we had never met. Shortly after they gave us tea and prepared places for us to sleep, Stephen Reech, the Sudanese ELI director arrived with a flatbed truck to take us “home.” We said our goodbye’s to our new friends, and then spent the next couple hours bumping along a dirt road past innumerable homesteads of returning refugees. Their houses are grass thatched with short 3 foot mud walls. Also in the compound is a luak, a giant grass house made to shelter their cows, the main livelihood of the Dinka Tribe.
The ELI compound has three projects right now, all at various points of construction. First, is an agricultural training center (incomplete) being built to empower people through growing food. This is a difficult task as the Sudanese have not enjoyed enough stability to cultivate for over 20 years. Second, is a home for orphans (one building has walls and roof, not finished). The third is an elementary school—which was my primary interest, and my reason for coming. It is nothing but a roof so far, but it is well-attended by over 120 kids in grade 1-4. Obviously, in a country without infrastructure, education is only recently available, so there are very few children in the upper grades. On the day we counted we found 80 in 1st grade, 26 in 2nd, 12 in 3rd, and 5 in 4th. There are 100 more students enrolled but not present, as they are off caring for the cattle. The students sit in the dirt under the roof of their wall-less school learning numbers, letters, and reading off of the blackboard.In these conditions I was amazed by the dedication of the teachers—4 high school graduates who all completed their studies in refugee camps outside of Sudan. I spent time talking with them, providing some teacher training, and also teaching in the school. The thermometer read over 120 F when I completed teaching a lesson on factors to 4th grade by dividing piles of rocks in the sand. I was amazed by their desire for education.
I visited 2 other schools during my time in Sudan, and found the conditions the same: unfinished, unfurnished schools, packed to capacity. One school had 70 1st graders in a classroom, and another 70 outside under a tree. The day before I left I was able to go into Bor town with Kiptoo, a Kenyan nurse (Jen’s supervisor at the clinic) where we bought 10 boards—the first furniture for this school.
I could go on and on about Sudan. Maybe if I ever get around to updating my blog I’ll tell about the 2 snakes we killed, the quart of fresh-from-the-cow unpasteurized milk I drank, of swimming with the herds boys in a water hole full of dung and littered with animal carcasses, or of visiting a man in the hospital with an AK-47 bullet wound to the head.
But Sudan was not about adventure, it was about people. I had great hope when I saw my 4th graders performing well on their math using gravel. I felt hopeless in the Bor hospital looking at toddlers whose arms were thinner than 2 of my fingers, whose legs were thinner than 3 of my fingers, but whose eyes were as big as my own daughter’s. I loved the life and energy of the machine-gun-toting men who wanted me to photograph them with their weapons and their tall, long-horned cattle, but I was sad to know that their guns also testify that peace has not come to Sudan as the Darfur genocide rages.
Sudan was incredibly different, yet when I worshiped in a packed church in a foreign language I felt right at home.
It has made me think about some things differently: What’s more valuable: a MIG 23 fighter jet or a 4th grade education? So as ELI explores its goals in Sudan, please pray for God’s wisdom. Please also pray (or act) about the bloodshed that goes on in Darfur.
I will quit there. Thanks again for your prayers. Jen and the girls did fine while I was gone too.
God Bless,
Davis
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