Kashaija

When I first came to my site, I was puzzled by the soprano voice that I could often hear from the night watchman’s house. I also wondered at the shuffling little steps, the endless work, the quiet, meek face that peered out of a weather- hardened brow.
There is a watchman at my technical school by the name of Kashaija (little man) who is the source of all these mysteries. He is slightly retarded but works extremely hard doing all the odd jobs needed around the compound. Today, I told him to go to the health center and ask the nurse to examine his foot. I found that he had failed to do so because he feared to ask the sisters for his medical record book (the Ugandan system is soooo different from the US!) When the school cook is not there, he is instructed to get food from the convent. In December when the cook left for the holidays, we found him Kashaija weak that he could barely walk. He was too afraid to ask for food from the convent cook. Similarly, he is usually incapable of getting care at the health center because he doesn’t speak up for himself. Unless we have already arranged with a nurse, as we did today, I accompany him and make him get his treatment. Speaking of which--- what is he ailing of? His feet were badly burned by walking on the road with no shoes. He had not purchased shoes for himself with his small salary because he bought a chicken for his mother.
When I first arrived in this area, he asked me if he could borrow 10,000 shillings. Before you get excited, remember that 1 US dollar equals 2,000 shillings. But remember how many US dollars peace corps volunteers get--- not much. Anyway, I did not want to arrive as the white person and begin handing out money. So I asked one of the nuns what to do. She told me to refuse, and I did. Later, a different nun (who I was to learn is much more compassionate than the first nun) found Kashaija crying. He had debts of 10,000 shillings and someone was threatening his life.
In that timid man with the high voice, I too often find myself. To afraid to ask for something, too willing to kill my dreams because of fear. Fear of what? Of what people will do to me? Of what they will say? Of rejection? No. It is a fear of loving yourself. A fear of asking too much for yourself, a fear of disturbing others. At its base is the notion that others have written you off and that you are only annoying them by your presence. At its base is the notion that you are not valuable to others and that you will never be.
Right now, I am sensitive to Kashaija when he needs help going to the health center or getting medicine, or getting food. Right now, I try to make it clear that I care about Kashaija and that his presence is a blessing, not a curse to me. The other day, he saw me carrying my jerry cans to the bore hole. He took them from me and insisted on bringing me water. I tried to refuse, thinking that I was disturbing him, but he would not allow it. With great pride, thirty minutes later, he brought the water to my house. Not crying, not ashamed, but with a wide smile. Similarly, I enjoy going with him to the health center, and insist on attending with him. He is not disturbing me, instead helping him gives me joy.
We are learning that we do have strengths and that we can be helpful to others. We are not merely in the way! Somehow we are both finding that our joy is in helping others—but that in helping us, others also benefit.