Thursday, July 22

12:35 p.m.

Corporal punishment in school is still an issue here.

This morning we walked into the schoolyard to see a long line of 4-year-olds single file in front of Teacher Joyce, who was holding a cane. One by one, they tentatively approached her with little hands outstretched. One by one, they cringed as she inspected the cleanliness of their fingernails. The unlucky children who may have stopped to play with who-knows-dirty-what on the way to school received one sharp slap on their palm with the stick.

It happened again inside, after the morning readings. From what I can tell, Teacher Joyce took aside the children who either didn't pay attention or participate. And caned them. If they took the hit "bravely" on the hand, that was that. If they cowered, Joyce targeted their legs and ankles. One little girl, Ana--the last to be hit--cringed and cried and begged. I saw her do nothing wrong. It was horrible to watch. But I could only watch. I understand the cultural differences, I understand I've only been on site 4 days... BUT little kids are little kids, and these kids are WAY too little to be able to sit through a reading of Leviticus without fidgeting. Not sure if--or how--I should address this. But, hitting children? Honestly?

The kids are pushing limits with me, and I'm nervous. Up until today, I've been an observer. Tomorrow I start teaching. I REFUSE to hold a cane.

6:30 p.m.

This afternoon, we visited the Neema Orphanage in the Kilimanjaro foothills. This evening, my heart is breaking.

The drive took us over steep, winding roads cutting through forests of banana trees. In the higher areas, mist clings to the bases of tree trunks, even in the midafternoon. Farmers with machetes cut bunches of green and red bananas, loading them into wooden handcarts. We turned off onto a precariously narrow side road, foliage on either side, and emerged in front of a row of stucco and concrete buildings, tucked into the hillside like a row of blocks. The grounds were beautiful and well kept. The buildings housed different age groups of children.

I started my visit in the infant house, and couldn't bring myself to leave.

All they want, all they crave, is to be held, hugged, kissed, loved. One little boy fell asleep in my arms, and stayed there the entire time. Safe haven. Also living in the infant house is a 7-year-old girl named Mary, who was dropped off at the orphanage a few weeks ago by her parents. Mary has cerebral palsy, and has never walked, can't talk, but reacts to stimuli. With no wheelchair or other supportive seating, Mary was lying face-up on the floor. Who knows how long she's lived her life that way. Julia (one of our group members), an occupational therapist, spent time with her--massaging stiff muscles that have probably never been massaged, and held her in a sitting, and then a standing, and then a WALKING, position for what might have been the first time Mary's view of the world had significantly changed.

My heart hurts.