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Global Urban Trek 2007
Back in ChicagoAugust 4, 2007
This morning I woke up—in my apartment in Chicago—and once again went through Mokattam pictures on my computer. I've done so every morning, for the past few mornings since we got back. It keeps the stories fresh, and somehow, it keeps the people with me.
I miss them. I'm not idealizing after the fact. I don't miss all of them, but the ones I miss, I miss in a heart-achy sort of way. Like Sarah. I miss my baby Sarah.
Back in Mokattam, at Sisters of Charity (an organization started by Mother Theresa to minister to the poorest and most defenseless in society—part day-care, part hospice, and part special needs clinic) each of us had a favorite baby, which we each termed "my baby." Sarah was mine. Barney called her super-cry, because she cried so much. She's not a conventionally pretty, Gap ad sort of baby, nor is she always fun to take care of. But some part of me got really attached to her, probably because I cry a lot too. And I'm not always fun to be with. So Sarah and I, we got along. I loved (and hated) when she'd sit on her bottom, look at me with her big, dark eyes, open her mouth as wide as it would go, and start wailing. And she'd blink big, rolling tears out of her eyes, and keep looking at me, asking me to do something—usually, she just wanted to be held.
But the nuns—the sisters—always deterred us from holding them, and encouraged us to hold their hands and make them stand. Sarah wasn't a stander. She didn't like it, and I didn't like it either because whenever she fell, she cried.
Christine's baby was Martina. Martina was a weak one. She had a normal-sized head, and a tiny body and frail limbs. She couldn't sit up, but she was so alive and so responsive—always smiling and gripping our adult fingers with her tiny, baby ones. She was a good baby, and hardly ever cried.
I realized the importance of people like the sisters—living and doing ministry among the poor—when a couple days before our departure, I spotted Martina sitting up. That weak, sickly little baby could've easily died in Mokattam without proper attention. But here, with regular meals and vitamin supplements in a clean, safe environment, Martina had gotten strong enough to sit. Later that day, I fed her, and found she was suddenly a voracious eater—she cleaned out her cup of cereal-mush, and ate more from someone else's. The change in Martina in the five weeks we'd been there was pretty amazing to see.
My baby too— by the end of our five weeks, she'd started to try and stand on her own. I'd see her out of the corner of my eye, trying to hoist herself up on her wobbly legs while gripping a table leg. And then I'd take her hands, turn her toward me, and she'd start taking steps, her feet flailing and slapping the ground like little duck feet, all the while making baby noises, her eyes trained on my overly excited face.
Leaving was hard. I cried, saying bye to my baby. She, like the others, will leave Sisters around the age of two, once she's strong enough and out of the infant mortality danger zone. Then she'll go back to her family, and God only knows the rest of her story.
Downstairs, we said goodbye to the elderly. While for the babies, we cried for the uncertainty of their lives; for the elderly, we cried because of the certainty of death. Maybe some of us would return to Mokattam years later, but almost certainly, some of the old women—perhaps Afifa, perhaps Roheya, perhaps the lady who makes the barking noses… certainly some of them would be gone.
Roheya cried when we left. Yuri and I sat by her bedside, without a translator, while she broke down in tears—her one tooth sticking out of her mouth as she babbled in Arabic. The only thing we could make out was "Amreeka," or America, which she said over and over. Earlier she had told Atef and I that we were like her son and daughter, though all we had really done was talk to her, stroke her arms, and smile at her for the past five weeks.
But I know it meant something for her to say that. Because Roheya had never really raised any children of her own. Salwa, one of the helpers at Sisters, told us that at a young age, Roheya became partially paralyzed as a result of childbirth; the child died and her husband abandoned her. She has been at Sisters ever since, and will be—again, for God knows how long.
Salwa, too, has her own uncertainty to face. A strong and robust young woman, she's been helping out at Sisters for years, living there and caring for the elderly full-time. Soon, she told us, she'll get married to a man she doesn't love. She wants to stay at Sisters, but she's getting married anyway. We still don't know why. But she cried, too, as we left. These were difficult and painful goodbyes.
There are more stories. Many, many more. I won't share them here because everyone tells me my journals are monstrously long. But even now, I have to confide that I can't be satisfied with what I've been able to present here. Because I know I am in debt to these people for the parts of themselves that they have shared with me, and I owe it to them to tell their stories, to tell every last one of them. To tell the stories of a child, a dying old woman, a baby named Sarah, tucked deep in a garbage slum—unknown, forgotten, and worth so little in the eyes of the world. I really do owe it to them.
Because they matter. They matter to God. Om Ebrahim (the widow whose house we cleaned) is in the Bible, did you know? Christine and I were on the plane back to LA when we read it, and we kind of flipped out.
1 Timothy 5:3-8: "Give proper recognition to those widows who are really in need. But if a widow has children or grandchildren, these should learn first of all to put their religion into practice by caring for their own family and so repaying their parents and grandparents, for this is pleasing to God. The widow who is really in need and left all alone puts her hope in God and continues night and day to pray and to ask God for help … Anyone who does not provide for their relatives, and especially for their own household, has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever."
This is Om Ebrahim, there's no mistaking it; the passage is about her.
That's one funny thing about the summer. While in Mokattam, I saw the Bible come to life before my eyes. I saw the people I was living among—I saw them in the Bible. Even the children—I'd struggle with loving them, and then I'd read Luke 9:48: "Then he said to them, 'Whoever welcomes this little child in my name welcomes me; and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me. For whoever is the least among you all is the greatest.'"
Or I'd see verses like, "Has God not chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith and to inherit the kingdom he promised to those who love him?" (James 2:5) And I'd have to answer yes—yes, God has chosen the poor to be rich in faith. I definitely can see that in the people I met here.
Which leads me to another one of the summer's biggest blessings. The faith of the poor that I've seen this summer has blown me away. Om Ebrahim—her faith blew me away. I had never in my life seen such a faith. And the faith of Christians in Egypt generally blew me away, because whenever we went to a church service, we heard them sing songs pleading for Egypt. And we heard them pray for Egypt. And for the Middle East. Consistently, faithfully, we heard them pray for signs and wonders and miracles—things that we in the "rational" Western world don't really believe still happen.
In Mokattam, after services, Father Simon often prayed for anyone who wanted prayer—he'd pray for those who needed healing or freedom from demon possession. One of those nights, several of us on the team stood around to watch the healings. Then we crowded around and had him pray for us too.
Things happen in Egypt, perhaps because people believe enough to pray. Perhaps, too, being in a land where Jesus once was and where miracles and plagues and supernatural things once happened has helped me to believe a little more.
Flash forward to debrief in LA—eleven of us from the Northwestern team are on our knees, with people from other Trek teams to other parts of the world. We'd just responded to a call to get on our knees if we are willing to commit to one of three things: two years of advocacy, ministry to, or living among the poor. My Trek Director is kneeling in front of me, praying for me. He prays for me to have faith like Om Ebrahim. And seriously, all of me prays with him.
In the days prior, our whole team had been struggling and wavering over whether we should make any of those three commitments. I don't know about the others, but in the end, what compelled me was remembering—not just the people I had met or their stories—but God's promises.
Isaiah 58:8 reads: "Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear; then your righteousness will go before you, and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard." And I knew I wanted that. For myself and for the global church. I want our light to shine like the dawn, I want healing, I want righteousness, and I want the glory of God to be behind us. I want that so badly. Who doesn't?
But I knew the two verses that preceded verse 8. Verses 6 and 7 say: "Is this not the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—when you see the naked, to clothe him, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?"
This is finally what compelled me. I wanted God's promises to come true, and I knew that to get them, I and others in the church had to be a part of loosening the chains of injustice. I don't know what that looks like yet. It's interesting to me that God ties his promises to the poor. If you do this, then… And if you read the rest of Isaiah 58, you'll see the pattern continues.
Some people serve the poor because they are nice people who easily feel compassion for other people. I am not one of those people, though I wish I were. Some probably also serve because serving makes them feel good about themselves. That is not enough incentive for me. I already feel pretty good about myself without having to do anything nice for the world—it's called pride.
The only reason that can possibly compel me is Jesus, because he is not only gentle and nice to people, he is sacrificial. And he was sacrificial for me. And I know that good things come from making sacrifices. Intrinsically good things like healing and righteousness and looking more like Jesus. That's why I kneeled.
It's hard to keep living like that, though. The re-adjustment to America has been on one hand, all too easy, on another hand, pretty darn hard. On a personal note, since I just graduated in June, I'm not only entering a new life post-grad, I'm entering post-Mokattam. So I'm trying to implement this awesome new idea called budgeting and living simply. The idea is that I live simply, cut expenses and luxuries as much as I can, and give the rest away.
The other day I was in my new apartment, examining the nice, quilted toilet paper we've got, and wondering if my roomies would be okay if I bought not-as-cool, not-as-pricey toilet paper when it's my turn to buy. Or whether they'd just think I was cheap. (They probably wouldn't. They're nice people.) But these are the little things I'm trying to figure out. Not to mention how the poor and advocacy are going to fit into my career, my life, my everyday consciousness.
This summer has blessed and burdened us all with so much to remember, but I have to trust that God won't let any of us forget. He won't let any of his peoples' stories go to waste, and he won't let this experience leave us without bringing us back to it over and over again in our lifetimes. I have to trust him to do this, because I don't really trust myself. Please pray for us.
As for you, thanks for following along with our journey this summer, and while we continue on into the un-journaled part of our adventure, we'll keep pursuing those promises and praying the same for you, as part of the global Church: May your light rise, may your healing appear, may your righteousness go before you, and may God's glory always have your back.
Salaam,
Marian
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