On Hard Things

I went out to the yard next door, to sit by the wall of the hut and talk to whomever was around. I was hoping to catch my friend Sam. Sam and his wife and sons came to stay with his mother for several months. He usually lives in the capital, but this year took a break to fulfill his responsibilities to his mom. As the eldest son, he is responsible for taking care of his mom- making sure she is provided for, getting wood for her, helping fix up the hut, etc.  

Sam and I have become friends this term, partly because he speaks English and will help me when my Kon language skills prove insufficient. He, like most of the people in our neighborhood, is a Liberian war refugee. He and his family fled Liberia to Guinea in the 90s. Many refugees were placed in UNHCR refugee camps for months or years around Guinea. Conakry was flooded with refugees, many of whom still live there today.

 The UN arranged for many to be given asylum in other more developed nations. The branch of government handling the distribution of passes to the West was corrupt, however, and rich Guineans were able to buy the passes out from government officials. The refugees would come in and be interviewed, and told they would be given a file number that would allow them to go start a new life in a new place. Then the officials would take that file number and sell it to the highest bidder. The result is a large number of Liberian people still in Guinea 20 years after the war; with little work prospects and no family support system to help them out.  It is a sad example of how corruption eats away at a country. 

Anyway, back to me at the yard, Sam wasn’t there, there were a lot of people around though and I sat down and talked to my friend who we call White Shoes in our writings- he is one of the ‘old men’ of the neighborhood. We were talking and then suddenly, a bunch of men came to the yard. They came from many different yards, all about at the same time. They had pickaxes with them. I was so confused, group farming? But why would the old men go too? If you have ever been in a cross cultural situation you probably understand this feeling: I could tell something serious was happening, but I had no idea what. The mood turned somber, and White Shoes excused himself to go with the men. The women were all quiet or suddenly had things to do in their yards, even the kids seemed momentarily silenced. By this point I had a sinking feeling, and I asked an old lady sitting next to me where the men went. I thought she said a child had died, but I couldn’t tell whose. 

That night sitting out again, my friend Solo told me- Sal’s wife had delivered at 7 months and the baby had not lived. I was shocked. Sal came up to us and I told him I was so sorry about the death of his child. He and Solo began talking bitterly about how backward and undeveloped Guinea is; about how if the hospital had the right equipment the baby would have lived, about how around 80% of childbearing has complications on either the mom or baby here. I couldn’t argue with any of it, I agreed with what they were saying. I think they were both processing some grief and just needing to vent. Sometimes I feel like when Guineans say these things to me, they are expecting help from me or money or a magic answer that I don’t have. This time I asked if I could pray for Sal and his wife, and he said yes, and I prayed for peace and comfort for his family. I told him I believe that baby is with God now, living a better life than he or she could live anywhere on earth.

It is hard to watch the suffering of my friends here. It is hard to watch the suffering of my friends in America. Suffering, by definition, is hard.  Pray that Guinea would see development, pray that I would do my part in bringing healing through the name of Jesus here. Pray for my friend Solo as he grows in his faith, and pray for my friend Sal as he seems open to learning more about the Way.