Nori: A Woman of Africa

Note: The names in this story, due to its extremely personal nature,
have been modified. All events remain unchanged, and the story stands
alone as a true account of what millions of African women endure every
day. Because I have a background in journalism, I felt compelled to
share Nori’s story. I felt a moral obligation to give Nori a voice,
although she was afraid to speak out. This is a story that should be
shared with anyone who cares about the women of Africa, who are, in my
opinion, Africa’s greatest strength and hope for the future.
–Ryan Oliver Hansen

The story below was written after I conducted an interview with Nori on
September 13, 2009.

Can a young woman’s torture make her stronger? Can a young woman, lost
in abuse, neglect, and cruelty, find strength from within? Nori, a
26-year-old woman from Uganda, has a story to tell. It’s a story of
triumph, almost unbelievable obstacles, and finally, a story of hope
for African women who are still entrapped within the cage of
social and physical domination.

Nori was born in the village of Zana, near the capital city of Kampala,
Uganda, in 1983. She was the only girl in a family of six brothers.
From the moment she was born, being female served as a curse.
“From my earliest memories on, I understood that being a girl meant
being something that was less, something that was not of value. My
earliest memories are of my father beating my Mother. This was my first
indication that being a woman meant one thing: Suffering,” Nori said.

As a tiny girl, Nori witnessed her mother being beaten and berated on a
constant basis by her father. “He would hit her, slap her, and punch
her. Eventually she would fall on the ground. Then he would kick her.
One usually blames alcohol or drunkenness in these situations, but my
father did not drink. His religious beliefs prevented him drinking. He had
no excuse of intoxication. He was just cruel. I hated him from the time I
could feel the emotions of hate. I hate him. He never loved me,” Nori says.

Nori’s mother was deaf and dumb, unable to verbally communicate with
her sons or her daughter. But Nori understood what her mother said
through her eyes. Nori loved her Mother, and was devastated when she
was separated from her at the age of eight.

“My Mother withstood so many years of abuse, and when I was eight, she
reached her end. She could no longer stay with my polygamist father.
He had so many women. He married three of them, but when he wanted, where
he wanted, he would add another woman to his collection, whether he
married them or not. My Mother left one day in hopes that she’d find a
way to become independent and come back and help her children,” Nori
said.

Nori’s father would spend money on his “favorite” women and leave
Nori’s mother and her children out of the loop. Nori and her brothers
would often go hungry. The primary reason for her mother’s departure
was not physical abuse, according to Nori, it was the fact that her
children were suffering. And one more tragic reason: Nori’s mother had
contracted AIDS.

“She knew that she could not stay with the AIDS disease killing her.
She knew there would be no care, no compassion, and no pity. She
realized that once she began dying, she would have been blamed for her
illness and cast aside,” Nori says.

Her Mother married another man, a non-polygamist, who treated her
better than her first husband. But she was still beaten, still treated
as property instead of a person. She had four more children with her
new husband, only one of whom was born with the AIDS virus. Nori
escaped her Father’s household and went to live with her Mother. She
stayed with her Mother for three years.

Nori knew that her mother loved her; that she wanted her to be happy.
She loved being close to her mother. Her one consolation amidst a sea
of confusion in life was being close to her mother. But because her
Mother did not have a voice, literally, she was forced to give in to
her husband’s wish that Nori leave their home.

“African men don’t want children who aren’t theirs to be around. They
don’t want to pay for their living expenses. My Mother’s second husband
was never good to me for this reason. He forced my Mother to send me
away. My Mother would hold me and cry because she did not want me to
go,” Nori says. “She wanted me to stay. But as a woman, she had to
respect the wishes of her new husband, who did not want me around.”

But Nori’s Mother was determined to keep her away from her cruel
father. She sent her to her Grandmother. Nori’s Grandmother on her
Mother’s side was willing to take Nori and to send her to school. Her
Grandmother paid for her to attend the Chambobo School for Orphans for
two years. Nori fondly remembers the two years she spent in school as
the happiest of her life.

“I was in school! I was learning. I loved learning. I loved my teachers
and they loved me. The two years went by so fast, and when my teachers
learned that I was leaving, they were heartbroken, as was I,” Nori
says. “Not only because I was losing my education, but because I was
returning to live with my Father.”

Nori’s Grandmother was unable to keep up with Nori’s school payments,
as she had a house full of orphans, as is often the case with African
Grandmothers. Against her personal wishes, she had to send Nori away.
Thus Nori was forced to return to the lair of abuse over which her
Father was King. Her dreams of education were over. Her nightmare had
just begun.

Re-married to an older woman, Nori’s father was now Grandfather to his
new wife’s grandchildren as well as father to his unknown number of
children created through polygamist relationships (non-marriage
relationships as well). He had no time or money for his daughter, Nori,
a girl of ten. Naturally, when Nori’s Step-Mother decided not to allow
Nori to stay in their home any longer, an arrangement was made. Nori
was to live with her Step-Mother’s daughter and care for her three
children. But Nori was glad to go.

“My Stepmother was a very wicked, wicked, wicked woman. She would allow
my father to beat me as he pleased. I was nothing to her. I would
always try to run away, but somehow, my Father would always find me. I
was never comfortable in that house because of the stick that was kept
in the corner. I remember staring at the stick, imagining what it would
do to me next,” Nori Says.

“ I would run and hide in the bush. But he would find me. Then he
would beat me and kick me. I hate him. I hate him. I still hate him today.”

Leaving to care for her Step-Mother’s grandchildren represented freedom
to Nori. At the time, she did not know that she was illegally being
traded as a slave and that she had a right to go to school.

“I worked as a maid and as a nanny for the children until I was twelve.
It was hard work. I was alone most of the time. Nobody talked to me as
a person, nobody cared about my feelings. I was alone,” Nori says.
But her solitude was soon to end. There was a “friend of the family”
who was often at the home of Nori’s Step-Mother’s daughter. He was a
man fifteen years Nori’s senior. His name was Kansanga. His presence in
the home became a regular occurrence, until one day, Kansanga displayed
an interest in Nori. He found Nori attractive, and wanted to have her,
intimately.


A price was negotiated between Kansanga and Nori’s Step-Mother. Nori
was sold to the man and was forced, once again, to leave a household of
misery for another that would be even worse. So much worse, this time
around, that Nori was to be pushed to the limits of human suffering.
She escaped the bonds of slavery and entered into the bonds of
forced-pedophilia.

But before this new life was to begin, Nori was required to undergo a
series of “preparations” at the hand of her Step-Mother. For three
months before moving in with Kansanga, Nori’s Step-Mother prepped
Nori’s body for her upcoming relationship. Weights were attached to
Nori’s reproductive organs. She underwent excruciating torture in order
to be “ready” for Kansanga.

“Later in life, when I learned that all women do not do this, I was
sad. Because of what was done to my body, I will never know the special
feelings of intimacy that other women experience,” Nori says. “I had no
idea that what was done to me is out of the ordinary.”

Nori was not married to Kansanga. Nobody found it necessary for a
useless child such as Nori to be given a wedding ceremony. She was
prepared (mutilated) to be Kansanga’s sex-slave, given to him, and from
then on was trapped in his house all day, forced to cook, clean, and
see that all of his needs were met.

Her natural instincts told her that what Kansanga wanted to do with
her was not good.

“I would try to refuse him. I found him intimidating and scary, and I
did not want to be with him. But when I would refuse him, he would slap
me and hit me until I would fall down. Then he would have his way,”
Nori says. “And I knew I was not the only female in his life. I knew
that he had many, many women in his life apart from me.”

Nori didn’t dare tell her Mother what was happening. “She would not
have been able to do anything, and Kansanga and my Step-Mother made
sure I had no access to her,” Nori Says. And soon after, Nori’s Mother
would not have been able to offer even compassion, for she was dead of
AIDS at the age of 32.

One year passed, and little Nori, now thirteen, found herself pregnant
with this Kansanga’s child.

“Kansanga, he didn’t have a reaction to my pregnancy. He didn’t care that
I was pregnant. I carried my baby and gave birth. I had a baby girl. I
loved my baby girl. I wasn’t alone anymore, and I would hold her, and
sing to her. She was my friend and my little baby,” Nori says. “I could
look into her eyes and see myself. Her eyes understood who I am. I
loved my baby girl.”

Life under Kansanga’s domination continued for Nori, and she had two
more children with him, one at the age of 16 and one at the age of 18.
But as she grew older, Nori’s voice within told her that she was not
living as she deserved, and, like her Mother, she decided to escape her
imprisonment. She risked her life to get away from Kansanga, and
through a series of fortunate events, she came into contact with Karen,
an American diplomat living in Kampala.

“When I found Nori I knew right away that this young woman had been
through enough, and that I had to do something about the injustice she
had endured,” Karen says. “She needed to get out of Uganda, because her
angry Father and this man, Kansanga, were a constant threat to her.”
Karen helped Nori find a safe place for Nori’s three children. They
were placed with responsible friends who care for them today, and Nori
left Uganda to live in Cameroon with Karen as Karen’s daughter’s nanny.
Today, Nori is safe, employed, and is saving her money to help bring
opportunities and freedom to her three children.

“My Father still hates me, because it is I, not him, who has traveled
and been given opportunities in life. Each day I keep busy so that my
mind does not think about where I was before. I cannot think about
it—it brings me into darkness. I pray to God each day to help me stay
on a safe path and keep my children protected. I know that God is with
me, I depend on God for strength,” she says.

Writer’s Note:

When I first met Nori, she was caring for Karen’s daughter at an
afternoon picnic. She was smiling and came across as a simple, young,
carefree girl. But in her deep-set eyes, I could see that there was a
story to be told. When Karen began sharing certain details of Nori’s
life with me, my shock and rage wouldn’t let me keep this story
to myself. Nori deserves to share her story.

All too often, stories such as Nori’s are overlooked by the Western World. The words
tradition” and “culture” are conveniently employed to
serve as excuses to overlook human injustice. In the media and academic
settings, Africa is often portrayed as a “noble” place full of “rich
culture and tradition.”

Africa has much to admire; much to praise. Africa is a diverse
continent with a plethora of fascinating traditions, foods, languages,
and landscapes. But in each country on the continent, lurking in the
shadows of mass slums, young women like Nori are silently suffering.
They consider what is happening to them to be normal, unaware that they
are individuals with human rights that should be denied to nobody.
Often, in the Western World, stories on Africa are criticized as
sharing only the “bad news” from the continent. Exposing the positive
events is, of course, a progressive way of bringing hope to a
continent. However, by ignoring stories such as Nori’s story, the world
is indirectly perpetuating intolerable abuse.

The governments of Africa, including Uganda, have, for the most part,
created laws that look good on paper. But the laws, when they
contradict “culture or tradition,” are easily overlooked. Would Nori
have been able to go to the police for defense? Would the fact that
rape of young women is illegal stop anyone from selling their
daughters? Is genital mutilation excusable in the name of “tradition”?

After writing the paragraphs about Nori’s baby girl, I was overwhelmed
with emotion and I had to take a break from writing to go downstairs in
the Green Eyes in Africa headquarters house. Charlotte, a 26-year-old
young woman was in the kitchen preparing food for the kids. She saw
that I was distraught, and I told her about Nori.

We then had the following conversation, which just added salt to an
already painful wound.

“Ryan, these things are not unfamiliar to me. They happen every day
here in Yaoundé, Cameroon,” Charlotte said.

“What?” I asked.

“Just this year, I was unfortunately witness to the female mutilation
of two little Muslim girls. My friend married a Muslim man, and
converted to his ways of life, including polygamy. She had no money,
and she felt forced to go into this marriage.

I was invited to attend a ceremony for her two girls, one eighteen
months old, one two years old. I went into my friend’s house. I saw a
woman covered in black cloth with only her eyes exposed. My friend was
distraught, and she went outside of her house. The father explained
that the visiting woman’s presence was an honor.

In the woman’s hands there was a decorated box. I was told that she was
a ‘special’ woman w ho had come to honor my friend’s family with her
presence. She opened the box.

Inside the box there was a bottle of alcohol and a knife-like
instrument, curved like a banana. The special woman and the girls’
father called all of the women of the family to come and watch the
ceremony.

The two-year old girl was then taken by the woman and was flattered
with baby-talk. ‘Don’t cry. Don’t cry. We will buy you candy.’
Then the girl was taken by a group of women and held in place. She was
undressed. The woman then proceeded to cut out the insides of the
child’s reproductive area. The child was screaming in a high-pitch that
hurt me deep inside (Charlotte cried as she shared this part of the story).
I immediately left the room. It was too much for me. I didn’t witness
the cutting of the second baby girl.

The special woman left. The girls had been sewn shut and I saw horrific
amounts of blood on their legs and on the ground. My friend was silent.
She couldn’t even speak. She was in shock.

I knew that all of the women who attended this ceremony, excluding my
friend and I, had been through this process and considered it a
necessary part of a woman’s development. I am horrified with the
decision of my friend to allow this, but she has no choice other than
to tolerate the wishes of her husband. She says she doesn’t want more
children. And somehow she’s been convinced that this ceremony was for
the good of her girls.


As a woman, I’m lucky to have had a strong mother. She was unfortunately sold to my father when she was fourteen years old in 1972. We are nine children in my family, seven girls and two brothers.

My father wanted that we girls be sold into marriage. My mother
refused. To this day, those of us who are not married, such as I, are
considered ‘lost opportunities.’ I am not close to my Father. I respect my Mother deeply. I don’t even speak to my father.”

Writer’s note:


As Director of Green Eyes in Africa, these stories touch me intensely.
They’re not just random stories I read in a magazine, they’ve been told
to me face-to-face by beautiful, intelligent young women who are doing
their best to stand up for their dignity and rights. These women, to
me, represent the millions of young women who are being abused, beaten,
and even mutilated in the hidden corners of African ghettos and
villages. They think that the injustice they’re experiencing is normal
as it’s masked by the words “tradition and culture.”


I hope that each girl under the care of Green Eyes in Africa develops
the strength that these two women have developed. And I hope that Green
Eyes in Africa can find a way to become more involved in the prevention
of female genital mutilation in Cameroon. Time will tell—but these
stories are burned in my heart and I shall never forget them. I hope
that you, the reader, will also remember these stories and share them.
Awareness of injustice is the first step, healthy anger is the second,
and realistic, organized action is the third…let’s get going.

Four Year Anniversary!

The 25th of July we celebrated four years of Green Eyes in Africa in Cameroon. Every year that passes is full the good, bad, sad, happy, scary, exciting, triumphant, disgusting, inspiring, overwhelming, empowering, wonderful, miraculous...thinking over the past four years is quite overwhelming to me. But miraculous is the word that best describes how I see where we are today.
Our four-year celebration was my favorite Green Eyes in Africa event we’ve ever had, hands down. We were honored with the presence of the U.S. Ambassador, Janet Garvey, and many other prominent individuals. We spent days getting everything ready for our big “Hoedown” event. It was a blast to put everything together…I thought the best way to share the experience is to take on the third-person voice of a party guest….
I interviewed an actual diplomat who attended the party. The following is based on that interview.
Welcome to Yaounde, July 25 2009…4 pm.
About a week ago I received an invitation from Green Eyes in Africa for the party today. Inside my invitation was an adorable drawing by a child that had the words, “I hope you can come” written on it. How could I refuse such an offer?
Today was a day I shan’t soon forget…
After battling crazy traffic in Yaounde, I turned down a bumpy dirt road full of pot holes. I thought, “Where the heck is this place?” My invitation had directions, but with no street names or address numbers, I was sure to get lost. The street ended…there was the Green Eyes in Africa mini-bus and many other cars…I made it.
I walked through an obviously home-built tin gate, down little stepping stones surrounded by red earth and I saw the garage area decorated as if it were a barn, full of rope, lanterns, a griddle, cowboy hats, cans of beans, and more. A large painting on wood was hanging from the ceiling. It was of a sunset with the silhouette of a lone cowboy and it said, “Welcome to the Green Eyes in Africa Ranch Where Dreams Begin.” I heard the song “Ghost Riders in the Sky” playing on speakers and I saw many other smiling guests munching on appetizers and talking. The crowd was about half foreigners like me and half Africans, the Green Eyes in Africa family.
Dozens of children were running about dressed in different costumes. One was dressed as a Chinaman, another as an Italian ballerina. I knew we were in for a show—it wouldn’t be a Green Eyes in Africa get-together without dance performances. Ryan greeted me wearing a Green Eyes in Africa t-shirt, a neckerchief, cowboy boots and a large cowboy hat. Behind him came Olivier dressed identically. These people really got into the hoedown theme! “Howdy!” they said with enthusiastic handshakes.
I wondered if I was safe…there were “bullet marks” on the walls! I suppose there had been a shootin.’ I read a sign painted in redneck handwriting. It said: “Rules: 1. No shootin’ ‘fore 5 a.m. 2. No ladyfolk after 9 p.m. 3. Clean up after yer own horse 4.Keep yer briches on.” Another sign said, “Round Up Yer Donations! –Billy the (orphaned) Kid.”
Apparently the Sundance Kid had passed by earlier that day and written on a wall with coal. It said, “It just ain’t gentlemanlike to let those poor lil kids get to suffrin.’ I reckon as much.” I agreed with what he wrote. There was much more to see but Ryan and others came “roundin’ up” all the “folks” for the big hoedown kick-off dance. A group of enthusiastic adults and kids straight out of the Wild West did Ryan’s version of the “Hoedown Throwdown” dance from the Hannah Montana movie. They got the audience clapping and stomping and laughing out loud. I wonder who taught the kids to wink at the audience when they dance…they had obviously worked very hard.
As I mingled in the crowd, I met people from France, Germany, Japan, Cameroon, the United States, Jerusalem and more. It was entirely appropriate that the second dance was to the song, “It’s a Small World.” Ryan, Olivier and a group of kids representing America, Cameroon, China, Italy, Kenya and Tahiti danced their hearts out with ear-to-ear smiles to a reggae-remix of the famous song. They were supposed to have a British Soldier to complete the group, but that little boy had just been operated on and he wasn’t ready to perform.
Ryan and Olivier then gave very moving speeches. Ryan read the poem, “Don’t Quit” and paused many times in order to control his emotions. He obviously believed very strongly in what he read. Olivier’s speech impressed me very much, especially his words about the power of music and reading in children’s lives. His words about the future of Green Eyes in Africa also gave me much hope. He and Ryan work together to help the American side of the work balance with the Cameroonian side. Judging from the smiles on everyone’s faces in the pictures all over the house—they’re balancing things very well.
I wandered back into the yard and met a fellow for whom Green Eyes in Africa is caring —Idrissou. His face is terribly deformed with an extra appendage hanging down to his chest. But he was dressed in spectacular traditional clothing from his Northern Village (close to Chad) in Cameroon. It was cream colored and embroidered with sparkling maroon fabric. I wish he spoke English, his one visible eye told me that he has a tender soul. Ryan and Olivier introduced him to the American Ambassador as if he were their guest of honor.
I spent a good ten minutes in front of a large, framed painting of the “Green Eyes in Africa Family Tree” covered in small photos and photo captions. I saw all of the children and families that are currently being helped, people who have been helped in the past and moved on, and dozens and dozens of big-hearted, smiling volunteers amongst the “roots” of the tree. I was there in the roots. I felt proud to be part of this work.
I saw many guests gathering in front of what looked to be a Swiss-like mountain-village-esque area. On the wood yard barrier was a large, hand-painted Matterhorn Mountain and amongst white-washed rocks was a little Swiss Cottage on a huge heap of dirt with a sign in front of it that said, “Die EntrichHaus Von Der Wunderschon Berg.” Ryan told me this means, “The Duck House of the Wonderful Mountain.” Ducks were waddling around behind a fence marked with the words, “Imagination is Power.” But on a sad note, there was a little pink cross below the mountain.
Olivier told me that the day before the party, the guard dog got loose early in the morning and killed three residents of the Duck House of the Wonderful Mountain. One female was found dead, and Ryan attempted to nurse two others who were badly torn apart. They didn’t’ make it. Olivier said that Ryan cried and cried but that the four-year anniversary party was a good distraction from the sad event.
The premises of the new Green Eyes in Africa headquarters are rather small, but there was so much to see and do at this party. In the Pirate Room there was a music video showing touching images of Green Eyes in Africa’s work from the past four years. There were happy images and many I wish I could forget. But it’s important that people like me understand the realities of Green Eyes in Africa’s work. I suppose the difficulties they face are made lighter through their use of imagination.
Imagination is perhaps the most prominent ingredient in the whole Green Eyes in Africa Headquarters experience. From the “Pirate Room,” a room decorated like a pirate ship filled with swashbuckling objects and pretend treasure, to the mini-library surrounded with decorations representing every corner of the world, to the Swiss Mountain, to the Hoedown room…it was a lot of fun. It was all the more fun when I was given a tour by a bright “tour guide” child representing Green Eyes in Africa.
The evening went on and the fifty or so guests gradually began to leave. The last two dance performances were a hoot. One was a tap dance to an Abba song; the other an 80s tribute to the song “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” by Whitney Houston. They have so many beautiful costumes that were donated by friends in the U.S. That’s definitely showbiz (with), kids.
I wrote a comment in the guest book and glanced once again around the yard. I saw Grandma Abomo cuddling little two-year-old Majoie, one of six orphans for whom Grandma Ambo is responsible. They’re one of the Green Eyes in Africa families. I was glad to have attended this event and to have put something into the donation bag. I left in the hopes that more people like me will keep this work alive so that in another four years, when she’s six, Majoie will still be healthy and happy in her Grandmother’s arms.
Congratulations Green Eyes in Africa. Here’s to four more years…

(Lots of photos of the celbration on www.photobucket.com/GreenEyesinAfrica)

Photos to go with blogs...

http://s864.photobucket.com/albums/ab203/GreenEyesinAfrica/?newest=1
We are now on photobucket...there are many images that go along with what Ryan has written about in the blogs...photos can be worth a thousand words.

--The Green Eyes in Africa gang

The Stories Behind the Story

The Green Eyes in Africa of today is drastically different than what it was one, two, and even four years ago. As we learn more about the country of Cameroon—its culture, its people, and most importantly, its harsh realities, we have been pushed to adjust our vision, our approach, and even our philosophy many times.

This has been an incredible process. It’s been joyful, it’s been terribly painful. It’s been triumphant, it’s been bitter. The ups and downs of our work give us much to be proud of, but also, many sad regrets that we cannot do more, in most cases because our help is not appreciated or even welcomed (the most recent example being a young woman with AIDS who refused our help because she preferred to go to a witchdoctor, and refused to believe that she was infected).

We are proud to say that with the help of our American assistant, Heather Moore, based in Salt Lake City, Utah, we’ve achieved new levels of success thanks to her professionalism and willingness to step in and do that which must be done in the U.S. and cannot be done from Africa. We’ve maintained our dignity and honesty when it comes to fundraising and accountability, even if funds have been sparse at times.
Our most recent developments have come out of necessity. The economic crisis hit us with a vicious blow. We understand that Americans are in a hard place right now, and since we’re an American organization, we realize that we must also accept that things are no longer as they were.

When we had to move from our large, spacious New Hope Orphanage house to a much smaller one with no hot water, faulty electricity, no surrounding compound wall, and a dangerous surrounding neighborhood, it felt like we were losing our battle. We’ve been robbed three times, and had four attempts that followed the three successful robberies. The last attempt left us a souvenir—the robber left behind his machete under the window bars he had cut off.

We’ve since taken measures to increase security (two guards, two dogs, and fog horns in every room). Our new center, although small in size and lacking in most modern luxuries, is beautiful and cozy and is still an inspiration to its residents and visitors. The Green Eyes in Africa spirit of imagination, dreaming, and creativity is alive and well.

Another painful decision that we made came not only from economic necessity, but from a reality check that needed to happen. As Director of Green Eyes in Africa (in Cameroon), I fight the desire to make everything okay for the people we work with and to try and create a bubble for everyone that protects us from the brutal city of Yaounde all around us.

Driving in the mini-bus yesterday, we looked out our window at a man on the ground. He was crawling on all fours, his legs were deformed so severely that they looked like twisted pipe cleaners, he had a mass of matted hair on his head and face (beard), and he was stark naked. His private parts were exposed from behind and the scene was horrifying and heartbreaking.

This man was obviously mentally ill—and there’s nobody here who cares about him. The corrupt government will do nothing, and the citizens are jaded and not even remotely shocked at such things. Lat week I was walking downtown and two children were pestering me, begging me for money with bowls. I had no change on me, so I was just quietly saying, “sorry, not today.” A man walked by me, and with a swoosh of his hand, he said, “You just need to slap them.”

This is the world of Yaounde—anyone can see why I want to create a bubble of happiness, security, love and protection from it. But time has shown that integration into this society is inevitable for the children we care for, and we made the decision to make a tremendous shift in our efforts.
Family is everything to everyone, no matter what culture you come from. The children under our care were either orphaned or abandoned due to their family’s extreme circumstances. But they do have living family members out there—and we felt it was time to work more closely with these individuals.

We began by asking each child about their family. Where are your extended family members? Who do you trust? Who has been kind to you? If you had to live with a family member, who would you choose? They gave surprising answers, and I realized that even if the Green Eyes in Africa family was their source of security, the blood bonds of family are also important.

We then did home visits and interviews with the family members. We felt that by working with them hand in hand, we could not only help the children integrate into their society and establish important bonds with family members, we would call upon them to help fulfill the responsibility they have towards their own flesh and blood.
I’m going to tell a brief “updated” story about each person that’s currently being helped by Green Eyes in Africa (on a regular basis, this won’t be about outreach programs). Their situations aren’t what I’d call my personal dream, but that’s not what our organization is about. It’s about working within the reality we face and making lemonade out of lemons.
Let’s begin with…

DANIEL, 16.

Daniel came to our door one random day about two years ago, sweating profusely from having hobbled down our dirt road on crutches. A taxi driver had told him about our center. He’s severely deformed from a battle with cerebral malaria and a car accident that made his deformities worse. He had nowhere to go—he was living in a hole in the wall where he was being neglected and beaten.

Daniel lived in the New Hope Orphanage for over two years. He learned what it’s like to be loved and be part of a family. His birthday was celebrated for the first time. We pulled him out of public school where he was treated as a “witch,” and we put him in computer school. He’s since earned his first certificate in computer accounting and he knows the basic ins and outs of computer technology. He found his passion. He found where he can thrive in spite of his handicaps.

Daniel now lives with his Uncle and his Uncle’s family. Green Eyes provides transportation to and from school and gives weekly food deliveries. The food deliveries not only serve Daniel, but his uncle’s family who is also impoverished. He’s followed closely and enjoys reading books he “checks out” from the Green Eyes library.

FALONNE, 17

Falonne’s little sister, Alexis, was one of the original Green Eyes kids who was rescued from the abusive orphanage in which I volunteered upon arriving in Cameroon. Falonne would often visit our center, cleaning the house like a crazy girl. Her overzealous work sent me a message: “Please let me live here, too.” We did our homework and found out that she was living with an Aunt who was using her as a slave in the house, and her Aunt’s boyfriend was not being kind to her, to put it lightly.
Falonne lived with us for two and a half years and became a new person. She focused intensely on her studies and benefited from tutors who helped her along her way. She danced, she laughed, and she discovered what it means to be a carefree young teen.
But something was still missing for Falonne….an inner desire she couldn’t deny….which leads us to her sister…

ALEXIS, 14

Alexis has been with us since the last few months of her ninth year of life. She experienced severe neglect and beatings at her former orphanage. She became one of the original Green Eyes princesses and thrived in a safe haven for just less than four years. She’s a bright girl who questions everything. But she, too, had that inner desire that hurt her…this desire was to be a stable family with her father, who is blind. Which leads us to this man…


JEAN-BAPTISTE, 42

Jean-Baptiste is the blind father of Falonne and Alexis. After their mother’s death (from “witchcraft”) he was forced to place Alexis in a corrupt orphanage and Falonne with her Aunt. Their family was divided and each of them felt as if their world were crumbling. Jean-Baptiste moved into a closet in the front of his church. It was a space so small he could not even stand up. This is where we found him. He was like an orphan himself—so we took him in as our “father figure” and he lived in the New Hope Orphanage for over a year and a half, saving money he made from a “call box” (allowing people to use your cell phone for a quarter) until he moved out into his own apartment.

Green Eyes in Africa is proud to say that Falonne, Alexis, and Jean –Baptiste share an apartment together today that’s funded by Green Eyes in Africa. The girls go to school down the road from their apartment, and they watch out for their father. They’re all very religious, and they regularly sing church songs and read the Bible. Green Eyes sends them food each week and makes sure the girls are doing well.

JEANINE, 14

Jeanine’s cousin was one of the original Green Eyes kids rescued from his former exploitation and beatings. Jeanine would come to the orphanage with Joel’s grandmother and watch our lives and dreamed of being a part of it. She lived with her Grandmother in what would be a pig pen in the U.S. (no walls, no nothing) and with her epileptic mother, Pauline. She needed to get out of there—and she lived with Green Eyes for over three years. She became a new child who’s aware of the modern world.

But Jeanine longed to be close to her mother, Pauline. Even though Pauline has epilepsy and is mentally challenged, she’s still Jeanine’s mother. Green Eyes decided to build a house for Jeanine, her Grandmother Francoise, and Pauline. They live together today, Jeanine is continuing school, food is delivered, and Jeanine is happy to be close to her mother. She takes good care of Pauline, passing on what was given to her, in a way. Green Eyes is proud to be empowering these three women.

JOEL, 10

Joel was a tiny five year old when I first met him. He was regularly starved, confused, and lonely. He longed for a sense of family. His mother and his twin brother died when he was a toddler, and Joel was blamed for it. Some people here believe that twins are evil, and that one twin always seeks the demise of the other. He didn’t have a good start in life.

But four years later, Joel is the perfect example of what’s possible through Green Eyes in Africa. He’s fluent in English, excellent in school, trained in dance, and has a positive attitude that Pollyanna herself would envy. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have extended family who would provide a safe living situation for him. Family is great so long as they keep the best interests of the child in mind. But he knows essentially nobody in his family. He thus still lives in the Green Eyes center and is protected and secure knowing he has the Green Eyes in Africa family to call his own.

RAISSA, 12

When it comes to stories, I hate to say that Raissa has the worst one of all in my history in Africa. I won’t go into the details; let’s just say no human being should ever experience what this girl went through. She was an original Green Eyes princess four years ago.

It’s taken a lot of patience and a lot of work to get Raissa to blossom and become the incredible girl that she is. She still has lapses into her past traumatized mindset, but she’s also a bright, giggly, fun and talented young girl. She has good days and bad ones. She loves dance and speaks English fluently. She writes English better than many twelve year old American girls I know.

Raissa does not have extended family that she trusts. She trusted her father, who is dead, and her Grandmother, who is also dead. The rest of her family was not there for her when she needed them most (for protection), and the idea of being put back in their hands leaves her shaking and staring blankly. It’s not going to happen. Raissa still resides in the Green Eyes center where she’s safe and reaching her full potential.

LUCIEN “Dodo,” 11

Lucien is a quiet child who rarely shows his true personality, which is one of tenderness and innocence. Life has hardened him—his heart is about as locked up as the hope diamond. He experienced years of being beaten and essentially living on his own. But he learned what its like to be protected, loved, and safe in the Green Eyes New Hope Orphanage for almost four years. He became a different child. But the Green Eyes world was not for him.

He wanted to be out with his Uncle, Alain, where he could be “free.” The rules and regulations of Green Eyes were frustrating to him (we run a tight ship), and he, most of all the kids, longed to be out in the Cameroonian world. We respected his wish, and today he lives with his Uncle Alain. This is not the exact path I would have chosen for Dodo, but I know his Uncle Alain is a good man who is watching out for him. Dodo is a good example of a child, who, in spite of all the fun and excitement of the Green Eyes in Africa world and family, needed his blood relatives in order to feel secure.

His uncle Alain is caring for him, and his older sister Nadege, is there for him as a mother figure.

CYRIL, 9

Cyril is Dodo’s little brother. One would never know this. They hardly gave each other the time of day during their almost four years in the New Hope Orphanage. Cyril is our child who’s known for his “bleeding nightmare” in our first documentary. It was a horrible situation in which I found him. He was giving him self-inflicted nose hemorrhages. He was so desperate for attention that he went to that extreme.

But it’s been years since he’s done that. Cyril was always a favorite of volunteers—his miniature size and hilarious giggle won over the hearts of dozens of volunteers. But Cyril also had immense trouble adapting to the Green Eyes in Africa rules. It was a constant struggle to keep him on track—out of trouble, not stealing, not lying. He was acting out in negative ways, and that’s when it hit me—he needs blood family to fix these problems.

So Cyril is with Dodo with their Uncle Alain. With the assistance we provide them (school fees, food, etc.) Alain and Dodo and Cyril’s older sister Nadege have formed a new family unit. Alain has two other boys, on of which is an amazing artist, and they’re all doing their best.


GRANDMA ANASTASIE ABOMO, 50

Grandma Abomo is an inspiration to my own mother, Sharon, because she’s sacrificed her own well-being and happiness for her grandchildren. Grandma Abomo came to our door about two and a half years ago with three tiny children. They were stick-thin with dirty faces and soiled clothing. She pleaded with me to help them—so we took in all three—Adriana, Sylvain, and Modeste. Unfortunately, Sylvain and Modeste had a family situation that was different that the one Grandma Abomo described to me, so we returned them to her. But Grandma now had seven children living with her in one room the size of a 7-Eleven bathroom stall. This was to change.

--ADRIANA, 10 lived with us for over two years and learned the ropes of modern plumbing, nutrition, and inter-cultural dynamics. She thrived and did well (she’s very smart) but she would often cry. She cried for her two dead parents whom she remembers well, and for her loving Grandmother Anastasie. It was when I’d watch her cry that I realized, again, in spite of all the terrific things the New Hope Orphanage offered, some children truly do need the blood-family connection in order to be happy.

So we re-united everyone in a new, small house that Green Eyes pays for. They get weekly food deliveries, and with this new set-up, new “Green Eyes” kids were added to the family:

--JOSEPH, 11

Joseph is Adriana’s cousin. His mother is alive, but she’s young and has no means of income. She lives with Grandma Anastasie. Joseph is a bright, smiling child and between his time at Grandma Abomo’s and his time with Green Eyes, he’s learning a lot. He recently performed at a diplomatic party with the “Green Eyes Children Dancers” and felt like a shining star. He’s on his way!

--MODESTE, 8

Modeste is a hilarious little, tiny, teensy weensy child. I swear, after meeting him two years ago, he’s still the same size. I think he’s just naturally tiny. He has huge teeth—which makes him a little comical in my mind. He’s super quiet, gentle, and sweet. I’m glad he’s part of the extended family.

--OLGA, 3

Olga is a cantankerous little stinker who runs the show. She is curious without being naughty or destructive, which is amazing when I think of the American toddlers I know. She is cute to the point of getting out of trouble! When I first met her she was blank and empty. But today, she’s honestly one of my favorite people I’ve met in this country!



--MAJOIE, 2

Her name means “my joy” but she has yet to blossom. She’s still very blank and non-responsive. This is how many toddlers in Cameroon are because they don’t get enough attention. But Olga was the same way, and she is now Miss Sassy Superstar herself. So we’ll see with Majoie…
Grandma Abomo has three older daughters who now live with her in their house. It’s gotta be crazy in there, but Grandma has said to me that Green Eyes in Africa has transformed her life.

IDRISSOU, 30

Idrissou is a beggar from the street that I’ve watched over the past four years. His face has an extra appendage that dangles down to his chest. He looks like a “monster” to car drivers and he has spent his life behind his “mask,” not knowing what it means to be human just like the rest of us. Not too long ago, I decided that Idrissou needed to join our family. He’s now employed through us, he irons clothes, and we feed him each time he comes. Our kids are obligated to approach him, smile, and shake his hand with both hands.

He refused the job at first because we have so many people around, and he didn’t want to be the “monster.” I told him to stop his nonsense and get with the program. He’s human just like us.

Each time I see him, he smiles and I look into his one visible eye and let him know that he’s God’s work just like the rest of us. His beauty just happens to be interior.

SOLOMAN, 20

Soloman is a wanderer from the extreme north of Cameroon, where he grew up in what Americans only see in National Geographic magazines. His French is weak; his life has been one of poverty. Olivier, our African Director, befriended him a few years back, and decided he needed to be our night guard. He still doesn’t know how to read or use a cell phone, but he has a job, and that’s the most important. He can now nourish himself and those around him (nobody with a job is responsible just for themselves in Cameroon).

OLIVIER, 29

I hate to think of Olivier as someone we are “helping,” because he is intelligent, articulate, fluent in English and French, and a musician. He’s our African Director of one year. So far, he’s been the only truly reliable co-worker I’ve had in Cameroon so far. He’s honest and frank. He’s also a devout Mormon, and his strict religious values come through in his excellent work.

But before working with us, Olivier was watching his father dwindle away. His father’s very sick, and his mother has no job. Olivier now uses most of his salary to care for his dying father. Before Green Eyes, Olivier had no job, in spite of an impressive resume. The first question asked in his job interviews was, “What tribe are you from?” and from there it goes down hill. In a culture of lies, corruption, and tribalism, guys like Olivier don’t stand a chance. We’re glad to have him on our team.

NAMELESS PEOPLE—
By providing help and security to these families, something rather interesting happens. In Cameroon, whether or not it’s fair, as soon as someone has a bit of good fortune, others show up at the door expecting “their share.” I know that the families we assist—whose rent is paid, food is delivered; schooling is paid, etc.—are reaching out to their extended families (mostly in villages) with the extra income they make themselves.
There are dozens of others we have assisted over the years—from Mama P who was dying of a fatal disease to Baby Grace who knew what being loved means during her year and a half with us. We’ll continue going strong….I’m sure of it.

AND WHAT ABOUT ME, ABOUT VOLUNTEERS?

I'd like to think that Green Eyes in Africa has opened the hearts and minds of everyone who has worked with us. Many, many diplomats who would never have had an "in" with the culture came to love Cameroon through us...dozens of volunteers over the years have had their lives changed by working with us. Chinese, German, Dutch, British, Hatian, Russian, Japanese, and other people have learned and grown as people by being part of what we do.

I myself would not trade a minute of all I've been through. I've grown and I've been broken. But my soul has known greater joy and greater pain than the average person--and for that I'm grateful. It's going to make me or break me...I've come close to being totally broken, but I'm on my feet, and I'm determined to let it make me.

I always remind myself, "To the world you may be just one person. But to one person, you may be the world."

This has directly applied to me on so many levels, and with this knowledge comes a heavy burden of responsibility. I am not free--I am chained to the Dark Continent wherever I go on this earth. I've given my heart and soul to Green Eyes in Africa. I am proud to add myself to the list of people who have been helped:

RYAN, 28

Sick...sick...SICK!

I am totally sick. Body aches, wheezing cough, the works. I've been getting sick gradually over the past few days, but today it is coming to a climactic ending (hopefully). I kept dancing really hard with the kids even though I was sick, pumping myself up with ibuprofen and caffeine. But now it's time to rest. I'm in bed.

I suppose I'm writing because I need sympathy...knowing someone will read this and feel sorry for me makes me feel better I suppose. I need a Mom and chicken soup!

I'm just praying that it's not malaria. The elbow, hand and knee aching is making me slightly nervous...those are the telltale symptoms when I get malaria. I should probably just go get the meds for malaria and see if that makes me better. If it does, it's malaria, if it doesn't, its not. Malaria has so many forms and variations you can never be sure. As long as it's not cerebral malaria I'm not worried (you either die or end up crazy for life with that fun strain of the disease).

So I'm in my little room slash library right now, breathing in the mildewy smell that's always here. I've lit a candle and I'm listening to the Out of Africa soundtrack for probably the five thousandth time. It always calms me and makes any situation seem more "epic" than horrible.

All day yesterday, last night until 12, and this morning I've been the cleaning dictator. Our house is so infested with mice. We unloaded the pantry last night...I held back gags from the smell of rodent urine. But I bought these little square bucket things to re-organize everything in there. It's the BEST feeling to know where everything is in this crazy house. We have collected SO much junk over the years.

We labeled, organized, stacked and packed and it was so therapeutic for me. Decorating and organizing are two ways I relieve stress (apart from dance). We filled box after box with clothing, pencils, toys, you name it. I decided to figure out what to do with all of it, and the best solution was to deliver it to all of our "outside" families and the children of our employees. We got rid of like ten huge boxes filled to the brim with stuff that will be put to good use. We also filled tons of large garbage bags with useless broken crap and stuff that was destroyed by the mice.

AHHHHHHHH that was the best feeling. Goodbye clutter!

Yesterday I found out something about Joel's abusive past at his former orphanage that still has me angry. The woman owner's grandson, Bebeto, was a bully to all of the other kids. He'd get school lunch money, none of them would. He'd regularly blame others for things he did and they would be beaten.

Raissa was laughing as she told this story--even after four years it is a process of teaching kids about what constitutes abuse. Joel also smirked as she told the story.

Well, one night Joel was sleeping very deeply as he always has, and his mouth was open. Bebeto proceeded to urinate into his mouth. Joel woke up and had been subjected to yet another child-to-child abusive incident.

Raissa and Joel thought this was funny. Undoubtedly, in their former world and the typical Cameroonian child's world, this is hilarious. But, of course, this is not funny and it is disgusting abuse.

I was just discouraged looking at Joel last night and knowing that the first six years of his life were spent as a helpless victim of whatever came his way. I was angry inside. I have been pretty good with the anger since I've been back. It's just driving and being outside of the house that get me steaming.

Yesterday I was in the center of a traffic jam too ridiculous to even begin to describe. I happen to be white and driving a blue bus that says Japan on the sides, so I became the focal point for the other drivers' anger. Racist shouts and shaking fists and the works were all going strong. The favorite phrase is, "Is that how they drive in Europe?"

Oh, hell, I could come up with SO many good replies to that one but I don't. I want to remain in one piece.

I try and smile and be obnoxious to these people instead of returning their anger or yelling back. But it takes all the self-control I can muster. I just get tired of not ever, ever, ever being able to just stroll or relax when I'm in public. Apparently in other African countries you can do this with ease, but not in Cameroon, or at least, not in Yaounde.

I just finished reading the book Fahrenheit 451. Great book, excellent reading for someone like me who lives under an African dictatorship (or anyone in the world of today, for that matter). I the palace yesterday and remembered, once more, that I'm not in Kansas anymore. What kills me is that this sort of thing (abhorrent palaces) is accepted as normal--just as the injustices inflicted upon the people in Farenheit 451 were accepted as normal.

"On va faire comment?" Is the phrase in Cameroon.

"What can we do?" Cameroon's equivalent to "Hakuna Matata."

I do NOT believe in Hakuna Matata. I belive in "DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!"

I'm done writing and I'm pretty much convinced that this is no longer a cold but Malaria. The bones between my hand knuckles and my finger knuckles hurt--that's not a good sign. Hakuna Matata! Errr, wait, I'm going to a pharmacy right now. Bye.

The Neighbors: A Glimpse Into Typical Cameroonian Life

This blog is not intended to express my opinions. It's intended to provide an accurate glimpse of what I observe from my bedroom window--a Cameroonian family that lives behind us.

The city of Yaounde is enormous. Millions of people have fled the complications of village life for even more complications in a city that doesn't usually live up to their big city dreams. There are three classes of people in Yaounde. The super rich, usually connected to the government, the few priviliged people who enjoy the basics of modern life such as running water and a house with solid walls (our current life), and the masses of people who live like the people behind our house.

Let's look out my window.

We see that their house itself is made of bricks. That in itself is special--many people build their houses out of mud. There is no glass in the windows. There are scraps of material that serve as curtains. The gray brick walls, from the ground half-way up, are covered with red earth stains and dirt.

There's a goat tied to a tree that bleats constantly from hunger. It's feces and urine leave odors that are carried in the air directly to my bedroom.

There's a sickly dog that sleeps most of the day in front of the house. His head is constantly bobbing to one side to chase away flies that wish to feed on his festering, puss-oozing ear wounds.

The house is marked in numerous places with red spray paint. The paint writes out dates and large x letters--which means their house is "unfit" according to the government and will be destroyed. The spray paint says 2008, so maybe their house was overlooked. The Pope recently visited Cameroon, and the government found it necessary to get rid of "eye sores" such as this family's home.

The paint could also mean that they built their home without paying the bribes necessary to get a "building permit." They're lucky it's still there.

The father figure is a stout, round man with a booming voice. He comes out each morning in a soiled towel and enters their square-shaped scrap-wood structure that serves as a washing area in front of their house. He carries a bucket of water. His feet are bare on the red earth that serves as the floor to his bathing area.

The mother is a portly woman with large breasts, sagging from years of not being supported by a bra. Her head is always wrapped in a cloth.

There are a number of teen boys who come and go from the house. They're the best dressed of them all in athletic attire. There's what I'm assuming is another daughter, a teen girl, who is often not at the house.

Then there's a little boy of about seven or eight, and a toddler.

The family usually communicates in ways that sound like arguing to the Western ear, in tones that are fairly aggressive. The Mother screams at the children all the time. I hear the children scream back when she beats them with sticks.

On numerous occasions I've watched the little boy flinch and try to flee the mother who is chasing him with a long whip-like plant stem.

The father seems to be a pastor of some sort. He shouts and screams the word of God to visitors in his house, accompanied by a solo singing presentation that sounds monotone and plain compared to his hysterical "The Bible Says" sermons. When he finds it necessary to evangelize, I hear each word of his message no matter where I am in our house.

Aside from the religious singing, the majority of music played (using an extension cord from another house) is American rap music, laden with messages of violence and dripping with the words F*** and Bit**.

Today I observed one of the teen boys walking around their yard while the teen girl and the mother did laundry. The little boy was naked, as usual, standing there watching everyone else.

The teen boy amused himself by slapping the teen girl on the arms and face in a teasing way until she fled the scene and the Mother intervened. I'm still not sure if the girl is a daughter in the family. It seems more logical that she would be a girlfriend of one of the teen boys, there to do his laundry. His flirtatious slapping didn't seem very brother-sister like.

The people who live in the house do all of their work during the day as there is no electricity to light their world at night.

This is what I see and hear from my window on a daily basis.

Fear Factor

Five days back on the dark continent. But it has not been dark at all, except for one very dark factor. But I'll get into that later. First, the good stuff!

I'm enchanted with the world of Green Eyes in Africa right now. I've not felt this good in quite a long time. Before I left, we were betrayed on a major scale by our three-year guard, Jean, by our cook Adrienne, and even by some of our own kids. It involved stealing, lying and deliberate sabotage of our organization once we called them on their actions.

After that, we moved into our much smaller new center with no surrounding cement wall, and we were robbed three times. The robberies were appear to have been orchestrated, by our former employees. The robbers took my laptop and other very specific items. They took all of the cash out of our German volunteer Tanja's wallet...but left all of her I.D. cards and credit cards. It was a message of, "we want you to know that we know you...this was not a random crime."

So that said, before I left, things had never been worse. I was emotionally broken, as were Tanja and Olivier, our African director. Tanja went back to Germany and faced serious depression in bed. I was just sort of numb and angry for a long while.

Now, a new page has turned and I can feel that our work is back in a strong place. The kids who now live with their families are doing fine on their own terms. They didn't necessarily like all of the rules of Green Eyes in Africa--hand washing, English lessons, limited T.V., no curse words, etc. So they're happy. They've all passed at school, and now that we support them and their families, it's working out quite well.

For those who are at the center all the time it's nothing but good times for the moment. Summertime vacation! Hooray! We're looking forward to fun times and they've already begun.

The dance shoes donated by Dance Unlimited Studios in Reno and Dancewear Unlimited in Utah have already been put to good use. We've been tap dancing up a storm as well as working on our overall technique.

It's so cute to see the little ones try so hard in dance. Modeste, who is ten but looks five, is a hoot. He puts his all into each step but never gets one step right. Joseph, 11, is a trooper and gives his all. Raissa is a natural and picks it up at an impressive pace. Joel gets it but has to work hard. And Adriana, does just fine as always.

We work up a sweat and it’s so fun to hear all of our tap sounds echo throughout our living room/dance studio in unison. For me dance is healing. Not to mention a great workout.

Grandma Abomo (our cook ) is her sweet self. Deb from Dance Unlimited donated some very beautiful new clothes and I gave them to Grandma Abomo. She was ecstatic and yesterday we had a photo shoot (see attached photo) in her new clothes. This is a woman who has never felt beautiful, who has never been anything special in life. She's lived a long, hard 50 years and it shows when you look at her worn hands that look like dinosaur claws and into her yellow eyes with scar tissue from who knows what. She's known nothing but death, "witchcraft," hard labor, and caring for her orphaned grandchildren.

So I dolled her up with the works: Make-up, hair, even false eyelashes. She saw the photos and was overcome. I could tell she was in shock that she could look so beautiful. That's the kind of feeling I love--knowing I gave someone a boost of confidence and self-esteem....maybe for the first time.

Her youngest grandchild, Olga, is my new best friend. She's three years old and is filled with smiles and giggles. She watches me constantly and when I look her way I get a grin to last a lifetime. I only speak English to her, she doesn't understand a word, but she definitely understands the language of love and she knows that Uncle Ryan adores her!

I'm excited to watch her personality develop. She's still very much in the "African zombie child" stage of life. This means that she's too complacent, too calm, and too numb to the world around her. This comes from being one of too many children, from being raised by people who don't have time to devote a lot of attention to her, and from being raised by people who have not been exposed to child psychology or the needs of a toddler when it comes to mental stimulation.

Olga is on her way to blossoming into a new child. But another baby under our care is not, I'm afraid. Jeanine now lives with her Grandmother and her epileptic mother five minutes away from our center. We've built rooms on what was essentially an animal stable before with now walls. It's nicer now, and Jeanine likes living close to her Mom. But there's a little baby that lives there, and she's just blank. It is so sad.

I remember the first time I met her. She was walking, so she's probably about two. I hunched down to say hello to her. I smiled, jokingly poked her bloated tummy, held her hands and talked baby talk, expecting her to at least giggle a little. Nothing. She stared at me with the African zombie child eyes as if she could see right through me. I hate seeing that look.

Our motto, "Every Child Deserves a Childhood" encompasses the idea that if a child, especially a toddler, is not filled with smiles and giggles, they're not being properly cared for. Maybe with time we can awaken this baby girl. But Jeanine's Grandma is a very difficult person so we don't spend much time at their house. We've learned that if you don't have the support of extended family members, it’s almost impossible to have a deep influence on a child.


Moving on to the shining star of Green Eyes in Africa. Joel. I may be biased because I've raised this little guy, but he's truly an exceptional spirit. Just watching him do what he does is a treat. He's curious, kind, funny and always seeking to do better and be the best he can be.

Joel and I don't even speak French anymore. I speak English at my normal pace, with an unsimplified vocabulary, and he understands everything.

Yesterday in the kitchen after we were done eating Joel was dancing in the doorway like a clown, imitating "white people" butts and then African ones. He came into the kitchen with a towel stuffed in the back of his pants and his lower back arched. He made all of us laugh and laugh...he's a constant source of joy to us all.

I was organizing things in my room later and I heard music playing in the dance room--he couldn't see me watching. He was doing some sort of superstar dance of his own making, throwing his "jazz hands" into the air, tossing his head back, and attempting his own version of break dance moves. The kid cracks me up.

At story time he came in and I was too tired to finish the book about eyesight with him. So he went to the stereo and listened to Pirates of the Caribbean 3 on book/cd. He's an endless fireball of energy and I know for a fact that if Joel is protected and guided through Green Eyes in Africa, this kid is going to make waves in his lifetime.

Our night guard arrives. First thing he does is find Joel and shout, "JOEL!" with a big smile. I'm so lucky to have this kid in my life. He is my inspiration.

Raissa is Joel's female equivalent, albeit much quieter and ever so much more skeptical about life. She cracks me up with her little 12 year old 'tude. She's always got her eyebrows raised and her lips pushed out, hiding her grin, as she looks at me as if I were crazy. Love that girl.

Those are the good things going on so, why is this blog called "Fear Factor" ? It's because the ghosts of past break-ins are constantly in my brain. Even as I write this blog on my laptop on our front porch, my eyes and ears are constantly adjusting to every noise, wondering if we're being robbed.

I wake up at night numerous times. Each noise is a masked man with a machete. Each crack is a board from the ceiling collapsing and a man dropping into the room.

This morning I was up at five, God knows why, and Olivier came into the living room in the darkness and I just about had a heart attack. We have a night guard and two dogs, but I'm simply not over the wounds of having been robbed before. The broken glass everywhere, the missing ceiling boards, the machete left behind after the last attempt....these things are always in my mind.

I'm nervous every time I leave my laptop in my room for fear that when I come back the window's metal bars will be cut and my stuff will be gone again. Losing my last laptop was like losing a person filled with memories and information I can never replace.

So I'm happier than I have been in years overall, but the fear factor lingers on. I'll never feel fully safe or secure in this country again. Maybe once we get a wall built I'll feel better. But the fact remains that if someone wants to get into our house to steal or hurt us, they can. They can climb any wall, cut any bars, kill any dog or guard...on and on.

I bought air horns for security. We have them hanging in each room. They scare the hell out of me each time we test them so hopefully they'd do the same to a robber. They certainly wouldn't be expecting that sort of awful sound blasted in their face.

We have used the air horns for two purposes thus far. One horn is in the car. There's something I cannot stand in Cameroon and it's that men urinate anywhere and everywhere in public, exposing their genitals to surrounding crowds and to my kids. One guy was doing this on the street and I just could not help myself--BEEEERRRPPPP! I blew the air horn at him as we drove by. He jumped and hopefully got pee all over himself. Damn, that felt good!

And this morning Raissa refused to get out of bed after Olivier woke her up to get ready to take her final school exam so I suggested a little air horn action. She got out of bed!

But we can't keep up these superfluous uses of the air horns or there won't be any air left in the cans to scare off robbers. Hopefully they'll remain full.