Angola and the Landmines

I stared at this photograph for a few good minutes before I could quite figure out what was wrong with it. There are the apparent things, like the fact that these women obviously have to walk for a while to get water and that they either live in tents or in ramshackle buildings, but I’ve been looking at photographs like this for a while and now those things don’t stand out as much.

What really stood out was how short the women were. They have normal proportions, so they can’t be little people. When I realized why these women were so small I was shocked.

These women lost their legs in landmines and now they walk on their knees.

Although Angola, the country that these women live in, is “potentially one of Africa’s richest countries” (Salgado), the civil war that plagued the country from 1975 until 2002 has made that potential nearly impossible (Talbot). Over 500,000 people were killed, many of whom were civilians, and this war was backed by the U.S. as an extension of the cold war, with pro and anti communism as the main political ideologies (Hurst).

One of the tactics of the war was to plant landmines. In 2004, there were still over six million landmines scattered all over Angola, with a new incident occurring every four days (“Humanitarian”). This photograph was taken in 1997, when the number of incidents each day was much larger.

I have never heard of the Angolan Civil War. I have never seen so many amputees as I have in Salgado’s photographs. I have never seen so much pain. And I’ll bet that most of you haven’t either.

"Humanitarian News and Analysis." IRINnews. N.p., n.d. Web. 26 Feb. 2013.

Hurst, Ryan. "Angolan Civil War (1975-2002) | The Black Past: Remembered and Reclaimed." Angolan Civil War (1975-2002) | The Black Past: Remembered and Reclaimed. N.p., n.d. Web. 26 Feb. 2013.

 Salgado, Sebastião. Migrations. New York: Aperture. 226. Print.

Talbot, Ann. "World Socialist Web Site." The Angolan Civil War and US Foreign Policy -. N.p., 13  

         Apr. 2002. Web. 26 Feb. 2013

Contribute

Now that I’ve been to the South Franklin Community Center a few times, I’ve started to learn some of the kids’ names. Every time I have gone I have helped a different kid with their homework or with their reading or even just played games with them, but I’ve found even after the hour that I am there that they are special. They each have their little quirks, their idiosyncrasies that can amaze and perplex. They are unique.

I was always told I was unique, even if I didn’t feel like it. I was always told that I was smart, even when I failed. If someone told this kids that they were smart and beautiful and unique, would they believe it? Or better yet, is there someone who even says it? At the South Franklin Community Center, the kids are encouraged and applauded. What about those kids who don’t come? Does anyone tell them that they’ve done well? Is anyone home to say it, or are they working overtime at their second job?

            Our lives are so different that sometimes I wonder if they understand why I am there. Do they understand why their community has a center like that? Do they understand that I volunteered to help there because it was an area of Provo that has a high crime rate? Or do they think that everywhere is the same?

            When I was growing up I didn’t know what alcohol was. I had only seen people smoke in public, outside stores in our shopping center. I thought that everyone lived like I do, and when I got to middle school I just thought that everyone changed once they graduated high school. In my mind, once you were an adult you didn’t do stupid things anymore. It’s surprising how wrong you can be.

            So I wonder if the opposite is true. Did this little boy think that everywhere was like the Boulders? Does he know any better? I didn’t.

How much am I helping? Is my service going to change a child, a community, or a nation?  Heaven only knows. But then, I don’t think anything will happen if I don’t serve. If I stay at home and watch a movie nothing will change. If I go shopping nothing will change. If everyone decides that what they could do wouldn’t make a difference, then there would be no differences made. No one would attempt.

The point is not to see the change immediately, and it is not to think that we are insignificant. The point is to hope for something better and to recognize that without movement nothing is done. It will not get better if we do not act. It will not go away if we ignore it. There is one solution. No matter how small your contribution is, contribute.

Lyric Essay

My little sister’s favorite thing to do is to play with hair. My other sisters and I take turns, sometimes because we all wanted her to do our hair and sometimes because none of us wanted her to. Generally, you came away with more tangles than braids and more hair ties than you need for a lifetime, but it showed that you were sisters. You meant something to each other.

A little girl at Good in the Hood was talking to me, and because she was only as tall as my waist I crouched down so I could see her face better. I don’t really remember her name; to be honest, I probably could never pronounce any of the Bhutanese names I learned on Saturday. Her hair was French braided and she told me all about how her mother did it, and how her sister did her hair. She told me how her mom wasn’t always home because she worked a lot. When she noticed my hair was braided the same way, she walked behind me and pulled out the hair ties, undid and re-braided some of my hair, and but the tie back in.

Another little girl sat on my shoulders as we played tag and sharks and minnows and Simon Says. She screamed when I spun too quickly and laughed when I went the opposite way than she told me to go.

When I bent down to pick up a coin, a little boy came and jumped on my back. I’m not sure how old he was, but he was tiny and barely spoke. He asked me over and over what my name was but only gave his once, even though I never caught it.  He stayed on my back for about a half and hour, just letting me run around with him until he decided the game would be easier played on the ground.

My sister went to Tonga this summer. She stayed on a little island called Vava’u just north of Tongatapu, and it was a different life. She said one of her host mom’s children picked up a knife and ran around with it until one of his parents just took it and put it on the counter with no fuss. She said it happened a lot.

A ten-year-old boy picked up a hammer in the parking lot and started playing with it.

We were in the middle of Salt Lake City. We weren’t in a foreign country and a few blocks away the house were huge and homey. We played tag in the parking lot outside the smallest apartments I’ve ever seen. We were in the U.S., but we weren’t in America.

As an afterword, this last Saturday I worked at Good in the Hood, a nonprofit in Salt Lake. Most of the children we played games with were Bhutanese, Thai, or Nepalese. Many of their parents struggle with English and they live on low incomes.

The Rwandan Genocide

The only reason you can’t see more refugees in this photograph is because eyes can’t see that far. Their sheer numbers are amazing; there is no end to the people, no end to the lean-to’s or the makeshift tents, no end to the children or to the fires or the old pots and pans dotting the landscape. It goes on forever.

This photograph was taken in 1994 in the Benako camp in Tanzania during the Rwandan Genocide.

I hadn’t heard of the Rwandan Genocide until just last year when a coworker of mine mentioned the movie Hotel Rwanda. This little known genocide was a conflict between the Hutus, the majority, and the Tutsis, who were a minority. When the Rwandan President died, a Tutsi-dominated party, The Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) was blamed and the Hutus began systematically slaughtering every Tutsi they found (Thomas). An eighteen year old refugee said that the RPF “killed everyone in their path,” but a man named Serukato said the “Hutu militia was just as bad” (Thomas).

These refugees attempted to escape the genocide, but the conditions they endured are almost as bad as the death guaranteed by remaining at home. Rations were scarce and prices of commodities such as toothpaste, which we take for granted, skyrocketed (Thomas). With only a small lake for water and washing, and with 500,000 people at the camp, the quality of drinking water quickly dropped.

In all the pain that the genocide generated, humanity was able to shine through just a little. Some Hutus housed Tutsis who feared death until even the Hutus were forced to leave Rwanda for Tanzania in order to escape the same sentence. The UN camp housed as many as possible, but 800,000 men, women, and children died (“United”). I just found out about this genocide, which makes me wonder how many people knew about it as it occurred? If no one knew, no one could help. I want to let people know.

Bonetti, David. "Bearing Witness toDesperation." SFGate. N.p., 30 Jan. 2002. Web. 12 Feb. 2013.

Salgado, Sebastião. Migrations. New York: Aperture. 183. Print.

Thomas, Annie. "500,000 Find Refugeat Camp." The Independent. Independent Digital News and Media, 4May 1994. Web. 12 Feb. 2013.

"United Human Rights Council." UnitedHuman Rights Council. N.p., n.d. Web. 12 Feb. 2013.