Discovering my Destiny

Photo by Priya Johnson/ VOX Staff

By Priya Johnson / VOX Staff

Delicate bubbles drifted on a sweet breeze to an azure African sky. I stood off to the side with a green plastic bottle dripping in one hand and a “magic” wand in the other. I blew lightly and watched the their eyes light up.

With fingers covered in soap, orphaned African children chased the bubbles and watched them float up to the sky. In the background, Nasif, a 6-year-old boy with light eyes and clunky black boots, beat an old wooden drum, and the girls, all dressed in bright yellow smocks, lifted their honeyed voices and danced.

My toes dug deep in black soil; I had lost my shoes somewhere along the way. I held my students and pressed them hard to my chest, loving them with every bone in my body but still not feeling like I could ever give them enough. My trip was short, and I was only one person to hundreds of children. How could I possibly make a difference?

This past summer, I dropped the comforts of suburbia and headed out on an adventure to volunteer in Africa. Little did I know that my life would change forever.

I crossed sand and sea and ended up in the mountains of Uganda, with no formal program or church group — just a place to stay and a tentative plan scribbled on the back page of my journal.

I had no desire to be guided along on a hand-held tour, taking pictures in every tourist spot and planning every minute of every day. It was just me and the world I so desperately wanted to become a part of. Frankly, I had grown numb from skimming the surface whenever I learned about another country. I wanted to feel the vibes of a beautiful culture, respond to the heart-wrenching cries for help, and wrap a bandage around whatever I could. Suffocating from my luxuries, I wanted to help those who had none. I needed to give back.

I got to give at the Destiny Orphanage in Uganda, and the taste of freedom teased my tongue. This freedom was a release from the expectations of society and the organized chaos that accompanies a teen trying to figure out her destiny. Twelve years sitting in a classroom and listening to a teacher drone on has taught me the fundamental skills necessary for life. You know the ones: numbers, formulas, and memorized techniques embedded in my mind, while my SAT score is labeled across my forehead for my future suitors to see. What does this mean? Well, I will probably get accepted to a decent college, be able to fulfill status quo, and eventually put food on my table, but it doesn’t mean much else.

It took 620 amazing children half way across the world to teach me a lesson far more important. There is no dusty textbook in any library that will teach a person who she really is. From these children in Uganda, I learned that I have to live and love each moment like it’s my last.

A Nation Still Healing
Through late-night discussions with my cousin, who was visiting Uganda to do research for his dissertation, as well as conversations with the taxi drivers who took me to and from the orphanage for the three and a half weeks I was there teaching, I learned that the nation of Uganda has had its share of trials and tribulations in the past decades. One could say that the nation is still healing. Little of the world has paid much attention to this country.

The story is overshadowed in common media by those involved in American interests, such as the conflicts in the Middle East. Although rooted in earlier clashes of ethnic representation, civil unrest surfaced in the early 1980s between a new Ugandan government and a rebel group, the Lord’s Resistance Amy. Thousands of people have been displaced and forced into government camps, which are supposed to be protection from the conflict but in truth are humanitarian nightmares.

Thousands of vulnerable, innocent people are being raped and massacred by the LRA and by President Yoweri Museveni’s soldiers, inside and outside of the camps. I attended a wedding while I was in Uganda because my cousin’s good friend Ham was marrying Vice President Gilbert Bukenya’s daughter. I saw Museveni at the wedding and although I was still learning about the situation, I had to try so hard to suppress my emotions. I felt sick to my stomach knowing that while I was partying with the bourgeoisie, helpless civilians were bearing the brunt of this seemingly endless civil war. Children roam at night in search of safety, and women are silenced by their mental scars. After 15 painful years, the conflict continues Peace talks have been ongoing, and I hope some good will eventually come of them.

AIDS has also been a large problem for Uganda in the past, and the disease has left a million children as orphans as of 2005, according to AVERT international AIDS charity. Recent initiatives have been made to establish youth communication programs to spread awareness and encourage prevention. These have substantially decreased the effect. All the same, the land is beautiful, the people are loving and they welcomed me with open arms.

The Need to Go
About a year ago, my cousin Zac told me that he was going to Uganda to do research for his dissertation on Rebel Movements. My knowledge of the region was limited, but my interest in learning more first-hand was definite. Besides getting the permission from my parents, which was a lot easier than I expected, there was no question as to whether I was going. I didn’t actually take time out to consider my options or weigh my decision. I almost felt like there was some force pulling me to go, and I had no desire to resist it.

I got a job as a waitress and started working weekends to raise funds for my ticket. Having been exposed to poverty worldwide when I was young, I knew volunteering was going to be a major part of my trip.

Every chance I got I searched the Internet for someway to volunteer in Uganda. I scrolled through pages of orphanages and camps that needed help, until one boy on the Destiny Orphanage Web site caught my eye. A photograph showed him smiling coyly in the doorway of his classroom and silently begging for me to hold him. I did not know his name, his favorite color, or his story, but I loved him just the same. I e-mailed the administrator and told her I was coming to help in any way possible. She welcomed me, and there was nothing else to it.

Finding Destiny
My cousin and I stayed at a cute little hostel in the capital city of Kampala. I spent some nights wrapped in cotton sheets and mosquito nets, reading Che Guevara by candlelight. Other nights we ventured out into the concrete jungle and felt the pulse of the nightlife. We hit every club in the area, from the bourgeois five-star spots to the laid-back, open-air hangouts. It was a drastic transition between night and day, but I processed it by writing. By daylight, I rode a taxi an hour and a half out of the city to do volunteer work at the orphanage.

The first time I rode out to Destiny, I stepped out of the taxi at the gate, and the sun beat down harshly on me, enslaving me with anxiety and provoking the stream of sweat that slowly made its way down my neck. I was the only mzungu to speak of — the only foreigner. I knew little about the orphanage except that there were 620 children orphaned by disease and poverty. But from the moment that I laid my eyes on those children with chocolate brown skin, canary yellow uniforms and smiles to die for, I felt I was finally home.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw an adorable little boy bouncing a red ball, and I recognized him instantly as the boy from the Web site. I had no time to approach him, as a little girl named Jacqueline came running toward me, cupped her hand in mine and led me to my classroom. After two seconds of attempted discipline and hushed murmurs, they burst with excitement and jumped from their seats. I was overwhelmed with hugs and kisses and affectionately named “Teacher Priya.”

I had a class of 93 students ages 4 through 6 years old, all of whom were ripe with innocence and wide-eyed with curiosity. With chalk in hand, I was at their disposal: teaching English and math, playing jump rope, teaching them English nursery rhymes and giving them love and attention that they needed.

I even made up games to instill positive values, like teamwork and hygiene. One day when we were playing jump rope and I realized that bits of plastic and glass, empty bottles and all kinds of garbage lay around the edges of the orphanage. I made a game of cleaning up. We took empty burlap posho sacks and raced around the grounds, competing to see who could pick up the most trash. After a lesson on the importance of keeping the grounds clean so that they didn’t get hurt or sick, I awarded the winner, as well as everyone else on campus, with chocolate from the local market and stickers from home. The way they smiled after receiving such small gifts would break anyone’s heart in two. But they understood the point of the game and made an effort to keep Destiny clean.

Orphans of Love and Poverty
When the sun was at its cruelest point, the children stood in food lines in front of a small kitchen with wooden slats and clay floors. They carried brightly colored plastic bowls and awaited their meal. The woman in charge looked strong to me, standing behind a large metal pot, stirring with a wooden paddle. She ladled out a scoop of posho — a corn-based mush — and beans into each child’s bowl.

From talking with the teachers, I learned a little about the children’s backgrounds. Many of the kids are infected with diseases-Malaria, AIDS, TB-and have nothing to heal them but a clean cot and a cool towel. They contracted these diseases from the helplessness of those who gave them life and in turn lost their own.

Others are abandoned for love. Their parents loved them so much that they were willing to pull up their own roots and drop new ones so that their children may lead more fruitful lives. They knew that giving up their children to the orphanage was the children’s best chance for a good education and the hope for a consistent life.

Lubanda, a beautiful boy with a mischievous smile, lost his entire family to AIDS and civil war. Maria, a beauty with a button nose and a round face, has a mother who is a fruit vendor. Fearing that her daughter would suffer through same pains of poverty she’s suffered, she left her at the orphanage to give her the hope of a better life.

Still, these children are packed in overcrowded classes, privileged to have a school but still lacking in opportunity. The rooms are made of cold concrete, and the desks are raw and splintered. Their entire lives are packed into metal trunks shoved beneath their beds, and the rusted

keys dangle on single threads tied around their necks. Their stories are sad to hear but eye-opening to me nonetheless. I finally got to meet that boy in the picture. One day in the middle of class he came and stood in the doorway with his shirt collar in his mouth and “Jerry” written in thick black marker on the bright yellow fabric that sprawled across his chest. He looked at me with the same magnetic look that inspired my journey in the first place. I stepped outside the door, and he reached out to hold my hand and followed me into class. My students told me that he was the baby of the orphanage and that he had been there since he was 1 year old when all his family was laid to rest from AIDS. He was 3 now and so his pre-K classes finished earlier in the day and he was free to follow me around. Everywhere I went, he was loyally at my heels with one hand clinging to my shirt or wrapped around my own fingers. He slowly began to speak to me, small words with a cute lisp, a lisp I would die to hear again. He was so smart. I don’t think I could do anything at 3, but there he was, completely bilingual and already writing paragraphs.

What I Took For Granted
So much action needs to be taken in the world, that this orphanage in the mountains was overwhelming at times. I shuddered at the thought that there must be so many more helpless children sleeping under the same sky — who would reach them all? One morning, Maria came up to my desk, eyes flowing with tears. She held an almost non-existent pencil between her stubby fingers, and I realized she was afraid that I would be mad because she couldn’t do her lessons without a pencil. I smiled, wiped her tears, and bent down to pull a glittery pencil out of my bag of tricks. When I stood back up I looked into the faces of almost every student. They crowded around me with eyes drooping and inch-long pencil stubs waving in the air.

I was struck by that fact that their needs were so minimal and yet they were so scared to admit them. I handed out pencils, and the class was a sea of smiles. But what will happen when those pencils shrink to two inches? And what about the other 527 students in the rest of the orphanage? What about the rest of the children in Uganda, in Africa, in the rest of the world? They are obviously relatively deprived, but that is not what these children see. To them, they are lucky to be alive and fortunate to be loved. In spite of it, all they smile. And here I’m mad because I ran out of room on my i-Pod. I was supposed to be “teacher Priya” all the way from America, but I had more to learn from them than I had to teach them.

In the village mountains of Uganda, I met children who were denied the luxuries of a loving family and secured existence, things that the teens I know often take for granted, but in spite of it all they thrive. For the first time in years I abandoned all concepts of time and grades and the need to surpass expectations. I stopped trying to figure out what I was going to do with my life. The College Board was a forgotten misery, and teenage drama melted into oblivion. I stood on my own but was surrounded by beautiful children with unconditional love in an unfair world. I tried to save the innocents, but they ended up saving me.

Now, back on familiar soil, I have a new perspective. My students are constantly dancing in the back of my mind, reminding me to relish every moment. Leaving them was the most gut-wrenching experience of my life. The salt on my cheeks burned like fire, and my heart fell to the pit of my stomach. I am forced to take comfort in knowing that no matter what life throws at them, they will continue to chase their dreams, their bubbles, their voices, and the world beneath their feet.

Priya is a senior at Roswell High.