Below is an essay I wrote back in 2018 about my first trip to Uganda. It isn't perfect but it contains details that, to this day, I go back and reread just to remember certain things that I had forgotten about my first trip.
The
Boy with the Backpack
We hear stories of people starving to death, children
being kidnapped, and women dying in childbirth, but to most of us these are
just stories; they couldn’t possibly be reality. We can’t wrap our minds around
the horrors that millions of people experience each day. That is exactly how I
felt just months ago. I heard the stories, I cried for the people, but I couldn’t
truly fathom the pain. I had to be there, hear the cries, see the hurt, smell
the stench to fully grasp the reality of it all. I came to the conclusion that
no matter how bad a person’s life seems, someone else has it worse.
Ever since I was nine years old, I believe God called
me to go to Uganda to be a missionary. At first, I was terrified. I mean, what
nine-year-old ever wants to go to Africa to be a missionary? It was absolutely
ludicrous. But even at such a young age I loved my Lord and knew deep down that
I needed to obey Him, wherever that led me. So that was that. I was going to
Uganda. On July 7, 2018 I started my journey to Uganda, Africa along with my
mother. Uganda was beautiful. I loved it the second I stepped of the plane. I
was home, finally home. Finally, six years later I took my first steps into the
“Pearl of Africa”. The first thing I noticed after getting off the plane was
the smell. There was this smell that lingered everywhere. I don’t know what the
source of it was. It possibly derived from the open sewage everywhere or the
trash that littered the ground, covering every square inch of Uganda. Whatever
the cause, it kind of smelled like really old tortilla chips. I concluded that
it was the smell of poverty. Poverty had a smell. I had never really thought
about it like that before. Of course, I didn’t really mind. After all, it
didn’t smell that bad. I would get used to it.
On the third day of our trip, we went to work on
remodeling an old office building. Our options were to either paint the office
building or tear down an old brick structure. I really don’t enjoy painting, so
I decided on the latter. My mom and two of our team members came with me. We
had been ordered not to damage the bricks that we would be taking out of the
structure so that they could be reused in a future wall around the complex. At
first, we thought that would be no problem. I mean, surely it wouldn’t be that
hard to just take the structure down brick by brick, right? Wrong. It took us
about five minutes per brick. We were getting nowhere fast. After discussing it
with the director we decided just to knock the building down and salvage the
bricks that could be reused afterwards. So, naturally, I stood back and watched
the men do the hard work of tearing down the building. Some children had
gathered at this point to watch the action. It was obvious that they thought
our idea was stupid and dangerous. They just kept laughing and talking to each
other in a different language. After a few minutes, more children showed up.
One of them sat against the neighbor’s brick house about twenty or thirty feet
away from the demolition site. There was something different about this boy. He
was obviously a few years older than most of the children. He had a nice
backpack on his shoulders and was wearing fairly clean clothes. At first glance
I would have said he was one of the more “well-off” children. But something was
just different about him. He had this faraway look in his eyes, almost sad. I
didn’t really notice this but something inside of me did. I don’t know how to
explain it. I just suddenly felt compassion for him without even thinking about
it or wondering about his story. Little did I know, this boy was about to
change my life. Once we were able, my mom, a bunch of the local children, some
of my team members, and I, started sorting through the rubble for reusable
bricks and putting them into piles. We soon had formed a line to pass the
bricks down. The boy with the backpack ended up next to me. He was a very hard
worker. He never stopped for a break or complained. None of the kids did. There
was a stark contrast to these Ugandan children and the children I knew back in
the States. These children worked hard, never disrespecting their elders and
always grateful for whatever you gave them. After a while, we decided to call
it a day. One of my team members had brought gummy bears to give to the children.
She asked our bus driver who spoke the local language to have one of the
children pass the gummy bears out in a fair and equal way. He chose the boy
with the backpack. I was so proud. I wasn’t exactly sure why though. I mean, I
didn’t even know his name but there was this feeling deep inside of me like he
was family.
The next day, we went back to the worksite to finish
sorting through the bricks. The boy showed up again. I was so thankful. I
really wanted to see him to ask him his name. So, we started sorting through
the bricks and the boy worked right by me just like the day before. It was
obvious he was bonding with me as well. After the work was done, the boy sat
down in the shade. I decided now was a good time to ask him his name. He told
me his name was Joseph. We soon had passed out fruit snacks to all the
hard-working kids. I made sure Joseph got some. After that, Joseph, one of his
friends, and I sat down to watch some of the painters work. We talked about all
kinds of things, from what certain words meant in Lusoga, the local language,
to how many siblings they both had. It was obvious that Joseph used to be in
school because of how well he could communicate with me in English. English is
the official language of Uganda so it’s mandatory to learn in school. When I
asked him why he wasn’t in school anymore he said something about fees. This
broke my heart. Joseph was obviously very bright and would excel in school if
he only had enough money to go. It could change his life forever!
After returning to the States, I couldn’t get Joseph
off my mind. I contacted the Executive Director of the ministry. I asked her to
find out as much as she could about Joseph. Within a few days she got back to
me and told me some of the most heart-breaking news. Joseph was a street child.
He had no home and no constant income or food. But most importantly, he had no
one to love him. I found out also that Joseph had been selling scraps to have
enough money to go to school. This blew my mind. He had been paying for his own
schooling! Joseph knew the impact education could have on his life. I felt
embarrassed. How many times had I complained about doing school? How many times
had I wished that summer vacation lasted forever? Yet, on the other side of the
world was a little boy who wanted to go to school so badly that he sacrificed
who-knows-what just to go.
Joseph changed my perspective on life. He showed me
that no matter how “bad” I think I have it, thousands, if not millions or even
billions, have it so much worse. Now, I have a hard time buying clothes that I
don’t need or spending my money on fast food when I know there’s tons of food
at home. To be honest, sometimes I even feel ashamed, ashamed that I didn’t see
it before or if I did that I didn’t do anything about it. Why should I live a
life of luxury when there truly are children starving to death on the other
side of the world?
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| Joseph (in the white shirt) and me working together on the first day I met him |
