on leaving

I am struggling to express how I'm feeling right now. Here's a shot at it:

I live in a city where I get a glimpse of blue skies through the viewfinder of rusted barbed wire wrapping dirty concrete walls. The beaches I walk share the same Atlantic Ocean with you. But my beaches have turned into trash dumping sites. My neighborhood streets are dark. Day and night, they are canvassed by beggars asking for small money.

I watch as so many Liberians — many of them children — push wheelbarrows full of random secondhand goods down broken sidewalks. They are desperately trying to sell whatever they can. You can see it in their eyes. You can see it when you look at the sweat on their brows. You can see it in their expressions. It's desperation ... and humiliation ... and I don't know what else ... is it hope?

Please, God, just let someone buy something.

They will walk miles for the chance to sell an old stuffed animal or bottle of perfume or Duke University t-shirt. I feel badly every time I see this — the eyes, the sweat, the expressions, the desperation.

I visited a friend today and ran into about 10 children gathered inside her home. They ran to hug me, and some just held on. Families are squeezed into small rooms in “group homes.” There isn't enough to eat.

A few days ago, I watched a man pull a woman's body off the road, an oval blood spot left on the pavement where her head had laid. A crowd surrounded her. It appeared she was hit by a motorcycle. No ambulance was coming for her.

As I ate a granola bar in my kitchen tonight (it has a stove powered by a gas tank, running water, and a washing machine and dryer), I looked out the window at the poor community of concrete block and thatch houses. A very small boy was crouched in the yard, going to the bathroom.

And I think about how it's all so unfair — this life they must live in these kinds of conditions. And I think about how is it that I don't have to live like that?  And I think about all the conversations I've had with people — Liberians, humanitarian workers, government officials — about what it's going to take to help Liberia "rise again," and how I've heard some pretty good solutions ... but how many of us really know?

Because I don't have to live in the midst of all the problems. I live above it all in places like my battery-operated apartment with a nice steel door to keep me safe from robbers who terrorize my neighbors. I walk into communities with my audio recorder and camera and reporter's notebook, and I spend a few hours learning about someone's life ... where they've been, what happened to them during the war, what is going on in their life now, what they dream about.

And I count it an honor and a privilege to tell their stories to a world that doesn't know them.

But when the interview is over, when I've gotten the photo I need, when I've asked question after question and they have given me the time because they are kind and don't want to deny my request ...

I get to leave.

Often my Liberian friends ask me when I'm leaving for good, and I feel bad telling them.

I'm leaving in August.

But when are you coming back?, they want to know.

I don't know, I tell them.

All I know is that I am leaving.

I'm really leaving. Because I can leave. Because I don't have to stay — living in the midst of so much pain and suffering and poverty and trash and violence. And that sounds terrible. And I feel guilty. But it's honest.

And yes, I'm thankful that I get to go home in a few months. But I also hate that I get to leave. And I hate that I don't want to stay forever. And I hate that sometimes I look at my calendar and I even think about leaving early.

And I fear what will happen when I finally do leave — will I forget what I've seen? Will I forget the people who have died in the short time I've been here? Will I forget the darkness and the trash and the barbed wire and the diseases? Will I forget the families squeezed into dirty group homes? Will I forget the desperation?

Will I forget?

Will I forget?

Will I forget?

Oh God, please, I hope not.

Comments

[Bob Holder]

Very well said. I know that you speak with the greatest of sincerity as I know you very well and what is in your heart. You see the pain and suffering that many of us never see and we take much for granted. You struggle with the pain and desperation that you witness and wonder, "Is it Hope?" With God, there is always hope. It's what gives us strength during the times of our greatest conflict and hardship. I am praying for you and for the people of Liberia. Love, Dad

[Andrew Pitts]

I love it! Awesome! Convicting! I'm sending to my Tanzania Mission Team and to my friends with THE LAST WELL. Press on!