Email: Leslie Fuller

Dear Friends,

Every time I walk to work, to the grocery store, to my coordinator’s house, to almost anywhere, I pass a corner on which a large family lives. My best guess is that there are about 20 people who live here, about 12 of whom are children ranging from 2 to 12 years old. They are especially noticeable on mornings after it has rained, as the corner is then covered with all of their clothing and bedding hung along the fence, bushes, and trees to dry out. I do not know who these people are. They do not speak English or Swahili. They could be IDPs (internally displaced persons), as some Kenyans speak only their mother tongues, especially if far from city centers. They could also be refugees, as their residence is just across the street from the UNHCR (United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees). The taxi driver I usually use insists that they are imposters camping outside the UNHCR’s walls, hoping for the pity of others. Regardless, I cannot speak their language.

Sometimes they ignore me; sometimes the kids utter “mzungu” (“white person”) just as I have almost passed; sometimes the older children stand there with their hands out and ask for money or food;  sometimes all the kids crowd around me saying, “How are you?” and follow me around the corner.

One day I was walking around the corner as the crowd of children formed. As usual, I replied to the countless “How are you?”s with “Fine, and how are you?” This never results in a response, but I do not really know what else to say. I just keep walking. This particular day, however, rather than just ignoring me as the adults usually do, one of the women began yelling at me. Since I don’t speak whatever language she was using, I don’t know exactly what she was saying. But I did manage to grasp that she was telling me that the children didn’t care how I was or want to shake my hand. They wanted me to give them money. I just stared at her blankly, said “pole” (sorry), and kept walking.

It shook me up. Each day I already battle with the guilt of seeing others struggle to get by while I don’t have to. Each day when I see the children bathing in the drainage ditch or carrying empty water jugs down the street, it breaks my heart not to be able to do anything to help. I have talked to both my site coordinator and one of my senior colleagues about the situation. I understand that part of the reason I am here is to be exposed to such situations. I am to recognize and challenge my reactions. I cannot fix the problem. My stipend provides more than enough for me to live but far from enough to support 20 others who have no shelter. As a matter of safety, I cannot offer to let them know where I live. If I were to give them money or food one time, every time I pass they would expect more.

All I do is say, “Fine and how are you?”