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By Kelly Christie

I spent my summer in Tanzania,
where the community we were helping
did more than just embrace us; it
absorbed us. I found myself walking
along dusty African roads, holding
hands with strangers, carrying street
children on my back, and revelling
in the sound of steel drums and soft
Swahili conversation. The place was
magic.

The children in Africa are not unlike
the children here, in that they laugh and
play and hold in their eyes that glorious
optimism that comes with being new to
the world. The first time a young boy
on the street jumped into my arms, I felt

 
       

 

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My Lessons From Africa

a sense of panic to protect my wallet
and pockets. It took me 20 seconds to
remember that sense of trust among
strangers that had taken me a lifetime
to learn to ignore. The children of
Singida opened their arms to anyone
and everyone. The contrast between our
worlds was striking.

In the village where we built the
school, the children ran shoeless
through the dirt, laughing and singing.
Many of them—who were not more
than eight-years-old—carried their baby
siblings on their backs. Their clothing
was ragged and knees and elbows
poked through rips and tears. A trail of
stains ran the length of their shirts, from

 

under the diaperless babies that clung
to them. They had no toys, no bikes, no
electricity, no Xbox, no HDTV — but

I don’t recall ever seeing happier
children.

Each morning, a three-year-old girl
named Veronica would wait for us at the
gate. At 6 am, before the sun had risen,
she would walk barefoot from her house
to help us pump water from the well. I
will never forget her tiny frame, proudly
holding onto the handle of the ten-
gallon bucket, grinning from ear to ear.

The kids entertained themselves with
sticks and rocks and organized their
own games. At times, they randomly
burst into heartfelt songs about loving

school and loving Tanzania. They
hugged each other and held hands and
they never complained or fought or
threw tantrums. When we told them
“no” once, they never asked again and I
never saw a child ask “why not?” They
used separate greetings for anyone older
than themselves to show the respect
that comes with age. This community
was a paradise where everyone was
welcomed, everyone helped each other,
and it truly was like one big happy
family.

I believe that there is merit in teaching
children to be cautious of strangers,
but I also think that it is dangerous to
teach them to disregard natural human
connections. Many of our children come
home from school and sit in front of a
computer/television/game system and
isolate themselves, withdrawing from
interactions, reciting the mantra that
“strangers are bad.”

During my flight home, I sat beside
two Canadian children who kicked the
seat in front of them, screamed at the
flight attendant when they were denied
a second helping of ice-cream, and
ripped up my landing card while yelling
“you’re not my mother, you can’t tell
me what to do!” As I watched their
parents drown out the sound of their
wailing children with complimentary
Air Canada headphones, I thought about
the kids in the desert, smiling up at me
and offering tiny helping hands.

People want what is best for their
children, but it makes me wonder if we
have taught them not just to be cautious,
but aggressive, isolative, and downright
disrespectful. Spending so much time
in a third-world country has made
me realize how little people need to
survive. We really only need each other
and enough compassion and common
sense to help those around us. We spend
so much time pacifying children with
gifts and distractions that it makes me
wonder how much time we’re actually
spending with them to teach them what
it means to lead lives worth living.