Help...

I stand in front of a class of 49. My students sit in pew-like benches with long, skinny desks. Five, maybe six are crammed on a bench that can comfortably hold three. Two others are crowded over their shoulders trying to catch a glimpse at one of the few life skills books possessed by Mahulu Primary School. The pictures are bright and the sections colored and adorned with clipart and Wordart. As one student finishes reading a section, 15 others already have their hands waving violently in the air trying to catch my attention. They want to read next. My heart breaks and I decide we should read together for a time.

As the class trudges on reading about equal rights for the handicapped a little girl slips out of her seat and walks silently in her used sneakers up to the front. Her uniform is very worn. The red sweater is unraveling and her blue skirt has burn holes, probably from tending the fire, cooking, and cleaning at home. The collar of her white shirt is clean, but frayed from washing. Yatima or “orphan,” I think to myself. I don’t know her name. My students quickly lost the name tags I had them make for their desks (and remake, a number of times) when I first started teaching them. I make-do and try to learn a few names a week, but it’s an uphill battle. The names are often unfamiliar and those that look familiar I pronounce incorrectly.

She lowers her eyes to the ground and asks to use the bathroom. I nod my head to the door and excuse her without drawing attention. As my students near the end of a section, I barely have time to think about what I wanted to ask them about to gauge their comprehension of the passage. I try and catch up at the end of their swift Swahili, but it’s too late. I was lost in thought and now, I’m caught. I choose another student to continue reading and go on thinking about the girl who headed to the bathroom. I’m angry at myself for not knowing her name. Or where she lives. Or who her guardian is. I’m wondering what happened to her skirt and if a strict teacher may beat her for her offense. I’m wondering if she’s learning anything from my time in her classroom. But most of all, I’m thinking about where she’s headed.

The latrines initially built when this school was constructed years ago are full. Now students and teachers go out to a shallow hole surrounded by a small cubicle made of sticks and the remnants of logs that remained after some lumber was cut in a nearby wood. These latrines are hard to keep clean and contaminate the ground water that reaches the drinking cups of all my villagers young and old, healthy and strong and those with damaged immune systems. The waste spreads from the school, which is at the top of a hill and reaches the crops of countless villagers. It carries dangerous fecal-oral diseases, such as diarrhea, dysentery, intestinal worms, hepatitis, typhoid, and cholera.

The school choos (latrines) have constantly been on my mind since March when I agreed to write a Peace Corps Partnership Grant to raise the money to help the community build new choos for the school. I remember sitting in Mama Elia’s living room discussing project ideas the day we discovered the school’s choo problem. Her wooden couch has brightly covered cushions, but they’re covered with lace and embroidered doilies. Every time I sit on them I pull off her careful decorations as I fidget over conflicting ideas and strategies. I was distractedly explaining the types of Peace Corps grants to Mama Elia (my counterpart, comrade, advisor, and dear friend) as I attempted to fix the lace on her couch. As I rattled off some examples of grants I knew other Peace Corps volunteers had done her face suddenly set and I realized she had an idea. I had mentioned a friend building choos and Mama Elia quickly began to explain how badly the primary school is currently in need of proper toilet facilities. To be honest, I cringed at the idea. Building projects are hard, expensive, and require the use of a type of grant that relies on the direct contributions of the volunteer’s friends and family. I tried to continue on with our discussion, but it was too late. The idea was already set in her head.

Later that week Mama Elia arrived at my house with the village’s Mwenyekiti or chairperson. She had sold him on the school choo idea and he had already talked to people at the school and numerous parents. I agreed to write the grant and got on the ball. The next grant deadline was less than a week away. I’ll spare you the details of the entire grant-writing process. It was a great learning experience and I now have a completed and approved grant online and awaiting support from, “Wamarekani wa kawaidi, kama familia yangu na rafiki zangu,” normal Americans, my family and friends (as I explain to my villagers).

A part of me cringes as I write this blog, I’ll be honest. I had hoped my days of support letters and asking for money were over. But their came a point one day where I realized I could serve my villagers, their pressing needs and desires, or be a servant to my pride. I chose the former. I know that I made the right decision, and I hope and pray you agree. I wish I could simply write a grant to ask for this money from a corporation or even our government, but PC doesn’t have the budget to complete building projects and PEPFAR (President Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief) funds are only related to activities that are directly HIV/AIDS related. This is the only avenue I have available. I know these people. I know their work, their homes, (some of their names J), their ailments, their heartbreaking histories, their jokes. I know this grant is important. In a way, I wish I could just make it happen on my own. But in some ways that is selfish and it steals an opportunity for us to do work here—together—in Tanzania. I feel some guilt in asking you to do this, but in another part of me I rejoice that my friends and family across the miles can be a part of my work here. I know some of you wish you could come and help too…maybe this is the next best thing. Thank you for helping me as I struggle to help my villagers support themselves. They’re spread thin between government development initiatives and struggling to better than own families. In a way this is my feeble attempt at saying, “I see you. I see your struggle. I want to help.”

I can’t wave a magic wand and skip over the many painful steps necessary in the development process. I can’t provide running water for everyone in the village. Or improve the roads which are nearly impassable during certain parts of the year. I can’t even provide “adequate” toilet facilities as they would be defined in the US, because the necessary infrastructure is simply not there. What I CAN do, is provide them with a few simple things. Latrines (with a septic tank away from the facilities to reduce the fumes inhaled by the students). And beyond that—education. I can teach them why of all the projects I had hoped to do, the first I chose was to build choos. I can teach them about the importance of sanitation. The role of a proper latrine. The diseases that will be prevented. And most importantly, I will give them a model to take home. A goal.

Currently, there are homes in my village without any bathroom facilities at all. The government tries to encourage their construction and use through campaigns and fines, but the poorest of the poor simply lose any savings they have to pay the fines. They never have the money to actually build the facilities. It’s a vicious cycle. This may seem like an expensive teaching tool, but what better place for it to be located than at a school. Who better to teach that progress is attainable than the youth?

If this is a project you’d like to support please see https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=621-205 and donate as soon as possible. It’s really important that construction is finished before the rainy season commences again.
I’m sorry to be asking you for money, that probably wasn’t your expectation when you started reading my blog. I’m sorry and yet I still have faith. I know the hearts of my family and friends. I know the beauty in being surprised by the generosity of a stranger. I believe this will happen. And I believe you will help. For that…I’m thankful. Mama Elia thanks you. My students thank you. My village thanks you.