The Boy with the Backpack

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?

Joseph (in the white shirt) and me working together on the first day I met him