Osman

I was handed a letter the other day. It's from a teenage boy who lives down the street from my house. Every morning I walk past the stall where he sells cigarettes, soap, candy, etc. He sets up his stand, placing each item in the display as children pass on their way to school.

Dear Madam,

How are you? Hope everything is fine. I'm really happy and I appreciate the way you are talking to me. You make me remember some white people in my village. They were missionaries, they opened schools and churches in my village. They used to love me so much but due to the rebel war they returned back to their country. So that's why when I see you I remember them, because they promised to help but the war spoiled everything. I'm praying that Almighty God will make you succeed in anything that you are doing so that you will not forget me.

From,
Osman

The day he gave me the letter I went home and cried. I cried for all of the hopes and plans ruined by the war. I cried for the families forced to leave their homes, businesses, memories. I cried for Osman, a boy who lost everything and has now put his hope in me. Me who has nothing. Me who doesn't know how to handle the situation. I am not worthy of this.

A soccer ball and school books

It is hard to think of someone in a worse situation than the people in this country with mental disorders. They wander the streets, yelling at passersby or walking slowly and silently while others stare, laugh or pretend they don't exist.

After the war ended in 2002, there was funding for PTSD and a few organizations were offering services, but no one was committed to long term recovery. There is only one psychiatrist in the entire country and there is one mental health rehabilitation facility. One for a country of more than 5 million.

I spoke with a woman from the rehab facility last night, and she told me about one of her patients. He thinks the war is still happening and he talks about it constantly.

Someone told me that after the war, many NGOs focused on reuniting the former child soldiers with their families. They brought them all to big open fields, and handing each a soccer ball and school books, sent them back to their families and communities to get on with life. That was the extent of rehabilitation for most of them, these children who were stolen from their homes and made to see and do things I can't even comprehend.

Just yesterday I saw a young adult male walking slowly, aimlessly down the middle of the road. His body was bare except for a ragged pair of pants hanging loosely on his hips and dirt caking his skin. Where was he 10 years ago? Was he forced to fight? What did he see and do? What does he still see in his mind, and why will no one help?

The sacrifice of a life

A curious thing happened yesterday on Highway 1. We took a trip up to Big Sur with the Schuler sisters (more on that later), and around San Simeon we picked up a hitchhiker. This isn't normal for us- actually, none of us had ever done this before. We passed him walking along the highway, and we felt compelled to offer him a ride. He carried a large pack, and his small body looked tired as he struggled down the road. 

His name was Darrell, and he was a rancher from Montana. It didn't take him long to feel comfortable in the back seat next to the sisters, or perhaps his situation in life made it so that comfort necessary before opening up to strangers. He had come out from Montana for a visit to the coast, and he was making his way up to Eureka where his brother would take him to surgery. He had cancer, and was probably going to die soon.

He told of how he'd spent years in Vietnam and was on the ground when the US sprayed Agent Orange. The government said it was a harmless herbicide that would clear the plant life but leave people unharmed, and the soldiers believed it. They even bathed in the containers. Now, it had given him a tumor in his brain and a few more in his stomach. He spent years feeling helpless as he tried to get the government to take responsibility for what it had done, for stealing his life. He collected 6,000 signatures of soldiers and presented them to representatives in DC, and he saw the signatures thrown into the trash as he walked out the door. 

His entire life has been affected by his years as a soldier. He still has nightmares about what he saw, and did, in Vietnam. He didn't choose this life- he wasn't really given a choice. I wish I could say he taught me some beautiful lesson about how to feel hope and joy despite terrible life experiences, but that is not true. His spirit was beaten down and heavy. He smiled, but there was pain. 

I've never felt much emotion connected to Memorial Day. It is hard for me to comprehend the depth of a sacrifice of an entire life, entire lives...but his story made it easier. 

Darrell's daughter is 6 months pregnant, and we are praying that he lives to see the birth of his granddaughter.