Liberian Church

I went to a small church in the country side: Pillar of Fire. The walls were made of woven reeds and the roof was corrugated tin. The walls reached to the top of my head leaving a good 4 feet space between that and the beginning of the roof. It was hot, but the breeze was able to flow.

The church was near a Sierra Leonian refugee camp and the church that morning was at least two thirds full of young children. A few of them got up to sing for the congregation wearing the best they had, which in some cases was ragged clothes that were too small for them and didn't cover enough. They were timid as most children are in front of a crowd. I was sitting in the front along with other foreigners and if I thought they were performing for us, I would have cringed in self-embarrassment.

I learned that the children were all orphans and the community had taken them in. Whether from AIDS or from the civil war, I don't know, but they all wanted to shake our hands after the service had ended. There was one particular girl I noticed that was thin and the least dressed with hair in half braids that had begun unravelling sometime in the past week. She approached me to shake my hand and I leaned down to tell her how nice her singing was. She shyly looked away.

The thought of all of these kids in one community with so many who had no mother or father, no family, left me choking back tears. What must we seem to them? Rich foreigners coming to enjoy our "African experience"? A young man approached Nigel to ask for help for a hernia he had in his navel. He explained that he was wrapping it in tight bandages every day. Nigel had to tell him that the visiting surgeon was already booked and there was no space left. We could do nothing for him. What would become of him now?

In Liberia, life is tough. To a Westerner it looks like a life of camping: gathering wood to cook your meal on an open fire. Gathering food. Fixing your makeshift shelter. If by chance you are unfortunate enough to become ill, death is a very common outcome. It is a difficult existence which I have a tough time justifying even homesickness when I am amongst.