I stayed awake last night caught in the vision of the tale
of two weddings and the difference a week makes. On was a family and friends gathered for days
of celebration – singing, dancing, feasting.
Everything geared to send the young couple off to begin their lives
together surrounded by lots of love and support. I saw them at church this morning, the young
couple is still grinning ear to ear.
The other leaves an old woman lying in the road outside my
gate, just as the sun begins to set, crushed, battered, beaten, with a crowd of
young men surrounding her, and a foreign doctor asking her questions she
probably can’t understand.
The story of the second wedding began, for me, with the
sounds of two gun shots fired as I was working with the women teaching me to
make a tray. Our heads were gathered,
they were excitedly teaching me to weave the needle in and out, when two shots
were fired in the distance. For a split
second we all held our breath, waiting for what would come next. In that instant, they moved in closer,
forming a wall to protect me. In an
instant, I caught their eyes as they flashed against mine.
There was no running on the street, no panic and no return
shots. Life returned to normal. The
women began to laugh again. A short time
later when they were sure all was safe, they began to shoo me away, like a
grandmother shoes away her grandchildren,
with laughing faces, shaking
heads and “Kallas, kallas – finished, finished” and so began my introduction to
wedding number two.
I left the women’s compound happy as could be. As soon as I rounded the curve in the road
and saw the crowd standing there I knew the gunshots had come “home”. I didn’t know if they were fired there or if
someone had been injured and they stopped for a doctor on their way to the
hospital.
What I saw, were young men
surrounding something on the ground and they were all excitedly talking. One of our volunteer doctors was in the
middle asking questions. Soon he called
for the doctor on call aka head doctor for the hospital, and had them take the
victim to the hospital.
Everyone left, except three young men. They stayed to explain to me what
happened. This is their story. It is a story
of their culture. A culture that has been carried down for way
too many years, and it (the story), is hard to read. None the less, it is theirs and I can’t thank them enough for stopping to share it with
me, for trusting me to know and not pass judgement. For having the patience to explain some
things more than one time. For caring enough to make sure I understood. And so, I try to tell it, as the best I can, the way
it was told to me.
“The boy” came to “get” her – the girl. He took her away. They went far away. Her brothers came home and found their sister
gone. They were angry and went looking for her and the boy. When they arrived at the boy’s house, they
did not find the boy and the girl.
I should stop and explain here, because I was confused too,
“get” means take her away to marry, in our tradition – elope.
I don’t know the history behind the couple. I don’t know if they were very, very young
and the brothers didn’t approve. I don’t
know if there was not enough cows for a dowry.
I don’t know if there was a father in the picture who didn’t approve. I
don’t know if the girl was in love with the boy. I don’t know if she was taken
against her will. I just don’t know the
answers to those kinds of questions. What I do know is this…
They found the old lady, home, alone. They began to shout at her, demanding to know
where their sister was. She said she
didn’t know. They threatened her and she
still didn’t know. They began to beat
her and she still didn’t know. Strong,
young men, armed with hormones, anger and sticks, reigning down on a poor
defenseless old woman, huddled on the floor of her mud hut, crying out in fear. There was nothing she could do. She didn’t know. She couldn’t give them the answers they
wanted. She either screamed until
someone came to help her or until they left to continue their vengeance
elsewhere. I suspect, someone came to
help her. The two shots we heard were
from the police trying to stop the brothers and jail them for what they had
done to the lady.
That is all I know except that she will be ok. She received blunt force soft tissue wounds
to her back and shoulders. They will
heal. That is the physical wounds. What about the mental ones? How do you ever look at the boy and the girl
the same again for inflicting such pain on you?
The three boys that stayed to tell me the story had such
sadness in their eyes. They kept telling
me over and over, “It is our culture, it is our culture”. I don’t know what to do in those kinds of
situations sometimes maybe God takes the duct tape off my mouth and lets me
talk so he can talk through me with love and kindness, not harshness and judgment.
I thanked them many times for taking time to share the story
and their culture and to make sure I understood and to answer my questions. I told them, “It is your history, your culture. I may not agree. But it is yours. I will not judge. I will not be the one to change it. YOU will.
YOU are the youth. YOU are the
leaders, I know that because I see you on the road and how people respond to
you. YOU are the ones who will make sure
this doesn’t happen in the future because you are the ones who will change the
culture and the future.” Right, wrong or in between those are the words I said
to them. I told them, You are the youth
and you are the leaders and you are the future of your country. YOU are the ones I want to work with because
you have the ability to teach others and lead them.”
I walked away with a million questions in my heart. At least one of them walked away with a
little more confidence, walking a little taller and I would like to think it
was because someone voiced support of them.
I know he found me at church this morning, looked me straight in the
eye, smiled and shook my hand extra long as he made his way through the
line. It is a small step, but a step
towards building a relationship and one leads to another. Each step towards a relationship is a step
towards peace.
And so, I thank God for leading me home last night when he
did. The stories aren’t all easy and
light and fun. Some will weigh on my
heart for a long time to come. But, each
one is a piece in the quilt
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