Belonging

Last day of a surprisingly long break: 11 days


I’ve been battling homesick feelings off and on for a few weeks now. They always get worse with school, public, and real holidays. Today, as I wrapped up an amazing book (First Comes Love Then Comes Malaria) and read about how the author had to say goodbye to her small village in Uganda, I couldn’t help but cry. This time, in fear of leaving.

I’ve struggled back and forth with the way things are here. I have a hard time comprehending how much corruption occurs. I guess it presses on my innocent American ideal that fairness should win, not power. I also often get disgusted by men. Their marriage proposals drip out of their mouths after they shout “Malungu!” in my direction. A School Governing Body Chairperson, a husband and father, of a nearby village recently told Chad and Christian how he saw me from afar and wants to sleep with me. I’m nearly certain it wasn’t me that he saw, probably one of the other four white female volunteers who share my shopping town. He’s never met me and doesn’t know what I look like. Still, there is talk about getting with me. I am often left with hopelessness when my efforts for positive change are countered with shrugged shoulders and people passing along blame and responsibility. These challenges leave me longing for my home.

I dream of a date with a guy that asks about who I am and is critical of my statements. I’ve literally thought about wearing a bag over my head. The stares might stop. The following may cease. The calling out to the white girl would calm. “Everyone deserves a home, a comfort, a refuge…” I’ve thought in the weaker moments. Hovering above it all is the never-ending question: why? Why have I decided to leave those that I love? Why do I always crave a difficult life? Why am I serving?

I wake up most days from a dream situated in my memory of America. I open my eyes as the rooster crows and remind myself: I am in Isandlwana. This thought is followed by a variety of emotions, depending on the day. Usually, sadness sweeps in until I realize there isn’t enough time to lie there and think. I get up, start boiling water, get my iPod out for sit-ups, and get going with my day.

No matter the weight of these homesick feelings now, I can’t begin to consider the overwhelming sense of loss when I wake up, look around, and realize: I am in America.

Life (with all its chickens, goats, dogs, cows, geese, turkeys, babies on backs, children, sisi’s, ubthi’s, baba’s, mama’s, and gogo’s) has found me here. Laughter sneaks its way into every exchange. Smiles are wide (regardless of teeth being present). Thankfulness and blessings are showered on me daily. Pain is shared and held by all. Everyone is involved in everything – which is completely frustrating, stressfully complex, and preciously beautiful, all at once. There is an inherent understanding of how to live off of the land: without electricity, without running water, and in poverty. There is little and yet no one is homeless. All are accounted for and known, even if school records don’t reflect this. Somehow, I fit here. A place for Khethiwe is always added, if not already there as a center piece.

I can’t even fathom the aching of saying goodbye to it all. And with that, I hold on. Missing family, friends, and coffee, I’ll remain slightly homesick knowing that it would be much harder to have to leave than to stay.


I miss you all dearly, but know that for now I feel like I belong where I am.



Also, I’ve been working on loading pictures of my home, vacation, and trainings on Facebook. Even if you are not on Facebook, you can view these photos by following this link: KP's Facebook Profile