Oh my Africa.
Tonight, I watched a documentary about a village in northern Uganda. It was a village that had been moved into a displacement camp in order to be protected from the rebels. They lived in a region that was nicknamed the “war region”. There were three children, ages 13 and 14, who told their story. At such young ages, each of them had already seen so much pain. They had experienced so much sorrow. All three attended the primary school, and were preparing for a music competition in the capital city, Kampala. They all talked about how music gave them hope. They didn’t see their painful past when they were dancing, or singing, or playing music.
Nancy was 13 years old.
Her parents had gone into the fields to gather food.
The rebels were nearby.
Her father had been cut into pieces by the rebels while her mother stood by, watching. The rebels told her mother to bury her father and then they followed her back to their house, where they broke in and dragged her mother off into the darkness.
Nancy took her siblings into the bush and waited for her mother to return. When she didn’t, she and her siblings traveled to the camp which is protected by the military.
Her mother escaped and found Nancy in the camp, but she couldn’t stay there because there was no work. She traveled to other villages to find work.
Later on in the documentary, Nancy and her mother return to her fathers grave for the first time in four years.
Nancy had never been there before.
At first she was calm. She stared down at his grave with deep sadness in her eyes.
Then she was on the ground wailing in agony, begging God to bring him back to her. She cried and screamed for justice.
She was 13.
Oh my heart.
How can I not cry for her? Even though this documentary was filmed 6 years ago, my heart breaks for the pain I know she still feels.
I can’t even imagine.
It’s moments like these where God’s calling on my life is so clear.
Africa.
That is my home.
I am called there permanently.
I am called to love each child, teenager, adult, elder in the entire continent.
It’s moments like this where I realize just how insignificant my problems are.
I do not know the agony that they know.
I do not know what it is like to be forced to kill someone for fear of being killed myself.
I do not know the magnitude of the sorrow they feel.
It’s moments like this where I realize my heart was made for Africa.
My heart beats for Africa.
The dirt, the sun, the heat, the smells, the beautiful mahogany colored people.
My soul yearns for it.
My soul yearns to be covered in that dirt, under that sun, in that heat, smelling those smells, loving those mahogany people.
My soul yearns to go back home.
To Africa.
