HEAL Africa : Worth Supporting

It's a Saturday afternoon in autumn, and I'm sitting in a coffeeshop, notebook open, with a latte for company. The rain has held off, and the sun is peeping through the cloudy sky, refracting off the high-rise windows and bouncing onto the asphalt. I can see the Sydney Harbour Bridge just ahead of me, stretching out behind buildings in the distance. I've been out for breakfast with ladies from church, then meandered through the shopping district and bought a pair of lacy tights. I walked for another hour, and found myself here, with a place and time to write.

But I am finding it difficult to escape into the world of a princess. Breakfast this morning included a speaker, the current CEO of CNEC Partners International. Until the breakfast fellowship was announced, I'd never heard of it. Kim Vanden Hagel spoke about what the CNEC (Christian Nationals’ Evangelism Council) and its initiative, HEAL Africa (Health, Education, Community Action and Leadership), are doing in the Democratic Republic of the Congo to help women and girls whose lives have been destroyed by the recent conflicts in Africa.

Kim spoke about the devastating effects of war on the female population. One of the realities of war is violence, and in DR Congo, I'm told, women and girls are subjected to brutal rapes and beatings. It is hard to swallow, hard to imagine, hard to equate my world of coffee and a peaceful day to day existence with a world where gang rape is prevalent. Not only does it happen, but the victims are cast out at a time when they should be embraced. Those who are strong enough - or lucky enough to be found by local missionaries and aid workers -come to HEAL Africa for the help they desperately need. Many come for healing from physical harm, including surgery and pregnancy complications, such as fistulae.

HEAL Africa also believe that the devastating effects of gender based violence (GBV) can only be reversed when the culture of silence is broken. The culture of silence extends to all forms of GBV. It is not right, in our Western way of thinking, but the culture of silence is one reason the women choose not to seek treatment at the hospital. It would mean admitting to the rape, and essentially placing the blame on themselves and causing their own banishment from their homes and villages. Instead they suffer in silence, assuming they recover well enough on their own.

I have been holding back this post because I feel there is more to add, more to research, before I publish it... but I think I could go on and on and still not touch on everything. And so I will continue with my thoughts from the afternoon following Kim Vanden Hagel's talk, and place notes for further reading at the end of this post...



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HEAL Africa's Fistula Repair Program seeks to care for women who have been left in a painful and emotionally traumatised state. But they recognise that treating the fistula is not enough. The culture that allows these rapes to occur and reoccur without acknowledging that the women have been wronged, must be changed. The stigma of being a victim of rape must be cleared; it is not enough to heal the wounds and send a woman on her way. Those who are pregnant need care and a means to support themselves in the future. Those who are incontinent from fistulae (which is nearly all) require care, particularly if they are the unlucky ones who cannot be healed, even following multiple surgeries; some are consigned to hospital wards indefinitely. Those who receive training are encouraged to return to community life. Some are able to earn money while they pass the time in hospital by making handicrafts.

The women who can be healed are equipped with skills that they can take back to their villages, enabling them to live as a valued member of the community. Their return is seen as a powerful gesture, rather than a shameful one. But that doesn't mean it's easy. It is not only women who are recovering from GBV that receive training through CNEC - the education is available to any woman, which helps to blur the lines and remove the stigma that might otherwise come from accepting training from the organisation.

Along with the support of CNEC and its partners, HEAL Africa is dedicated to enabling locals, rather than sending expatriates to help. By donating your time or money, more girls can be reached, and more women can know that they are worth saving.

I've mentioned the possibility of another charity blogging event, but I've been waiting for something to come along and hold onto my heart. These girls need our help. If you would like to contribute, either by donation directly to HEAL Africa and CNEC or by participating in the blogoff, let me know in the comments or via email. This is a cause worth supporting.


Further Reading


To read more about GBV and the culture of silence surrounding sexuality and abuse, I recommend this newsletter. One statement that caught my eye reads, "GBV occurs everywhere, be it in the home, school, workplace or wider society. The major reason for its widespread nature is embedded in certain patriarchal values that regard women as mere sex objects to be conquered and satisfy the desire of men. Certain myths also see women as accomplices in the rape cases and men as having animalist desires which cannot be controlled. In the absence of limited institutional mechanisms to address GBV and a deliberate culture of silence around issues of sexuality and abuse, GBV will continue to thrive." (Exchange, Summer 2006)

The Real Sydney : A war where the weapon of choice is rape

To read the story of one woman who was helped by HEAL Africa, read the news story titled "International Women's Day - Not Joyful for Some" from 11/03/2010 on CNEC's News Page.


NGO News Africa - Rwanda : Gender Equality, Ending Widespread Violence Against Women

Babies: Back to Basics or Buying the Best?

Ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes... perfection. Now all that's needed is a receiving blanket. And an outfit or three. And designer booties – those handknitted ones are made of itchy wool. Don't forget the diaper bag with wipes and nappies and cream and a bottle and a cap and mittens and another receiving blanket.

Babies seem to need so much – but where is the line between need and luxury? The consumerism surrounding babies is unbelievable. I don't know whether it's fuelled by parents who equate spending money with spending time, or by those who are afraid to seem cheap when it comes to caring for their offspring, or those who just get caught up in the excitement that is BABY. There is so much out there!

Why is the market for baby gear so astoundingly lucrative? Is it because this generation has lost the skills needed to knit and sew? Because new is considered better and more hygienic? Because health codes are more restrictive? We can each decide what is a necessity and what is a comfort for ourselves, but when it comes to our children, it seems that we are judged more harshly by others for the choices we make. If you don't have the latest stroller, or a $600 diaper bag (yes, they exist), or a personalised hypoallergenic blanket, does that make you a bad parent? Of course not – but loving gestures like handmade onesies and hand-me-down cribs seem out of place in today's consumer-driven world.

Those of you who know me will be aware that I married two years ago, and so far it's just the two of us. I can't speak from experience here, so my opinion may not sit well with everyone – but that's okay. Several of my classmates and friends are already parents, and I would never tell them what I feel is right for them – because, especially when it comes to raising a family, there isn't one way that works for everyone. Some of them are going back to basics, and others are providing what they believe is the best for their babies. I don't know what kind of mother I'll be someday, but I hope I'll be the kind that puts time ahead of money, and comfort ahead of couture.

Most of all, I hope that I will be able to focus on the tiny bundle of wonderment God may choose to bless us with one day. I'd like to provide the best that I can, but for me, that starts with a loving home, blankets and clothes that are soft and warm, good nutrition, and lullabies that my mother sang to me. Anything above that would be an embarrassment of riches...but I might be so content I wouldn't notice.

This week's topic is 'babies,' which is only fitting considering our chosen charity. That's it for this edition of the Blog-Off! Thanks everyone for your comments and contributions.

Mom, sis, cousins - don't freak out, ok? There is nothing I need to tell you. And Mom - thanks for all the lullabies.

Lessons from the Cutlery Drawer

It's nearly time for bed, and as I put the kettle on I realised I was a bit peckish. In the tea cupboard I spotted the peanut butter jar and decided a slice of toast and PB would be perfect.

The dishwasher's on, and it runs like an orchestra of crickets. In the cutlery drawer there are no knives, but I don't dare open the churning dishwasher. I snag a tablespoon from the drawer instead. As it turns out, the back of the spoon does a fine job of spreading the smooth peanut butter onto my soy-linseed toast.

No, the peanut butter doesn't look like the Virgin Mary's profile. But it occurs to me that a task usually requires a set tool, skill, or knowledge. You might think that someone without these perks might be at a disadvantage, but with a little creativity, the job can still get done.

It got me thinking: Why do we give up so easily? Why are we so frustrated, so unmovable, so quick to blame failure on our lack of...something? How much have we gained by doing things by trial and error? How much might we as a culture have lost if there was only one solution for every problem?

It isn't about what we have - it's what we do with it that counts.

Blog-off topic of the week: The most important lesson.

Random fact: another name for the runcible spoon, as in the Owl and the Pussycat's "which they ate with a runcible spoon," is a spork! Runcible spoons have three tines and were originally intended to serve chutneys and pickles. Source: Antique Silver Spoons. I always thought that was a made-up word. Hey, I warned you this blog was random!

Fond of Dancing

This week's blog-off topic:

You are allowed, through the miracles of science, to travel into the past for a span of no more than 24 hours. You are allowed to take with you ONE piece of current modern technology with which you may change the lives of ONE family that you can visit during your stay. Assuming that there are no long-term, widespread disastrous outcomes from this altering of the timeline, when and where would you go, what piece of technology would you take with you to leave with them and why, and what do you think the experience would be like?



I am a little breathless from my journey, and giddy at what I might accomplish. Toying with England's history? Yes. Do I believe it is for the greater good? Undoubtedly. I only hope I am right.

I brush at the folds of my pale yellow day dress, thankful for the fancy dress parties that keep costume hire shops in business. A soft green pelisse is draped over my left arm, and in my right hand I clutch a patterned travelling case. Its contents are not much to look on, but in 1816 they will bring about a miracle.

I knock at the door of a house in Winchester. “I'm here to see Mr. Lyford, if you please. I've come a long way to give something to him.”

The butler is sceptical, but I hand him a card I've had specially designed for this trip, and it seems to place me in higher estimation. I wait in the entry for several moments until he returns.

“If Miss could follow me to the East parlour, please.”

After an interminable ten minutes, the butler's tones announce his master's arrival. I stand to greet Mr. Lyford, and he takes my hand. The butler remains at the edge of the room, for propriety's sake.

“Dear sir,” I begin, “though I am a stranger to you, we have a common...friend. The lady in question is in poor health, and if you will accept a gift from me, you can make her well again.”

We talk for a quarter of an hour, but I know I cannot waste this man's time. I explain as simply as I can, and Mr. Lyford nods, his only sign of bewilderment the widening of his eyes. “Well,” he says gruffly, “I daresay it can't do any harm. Hydrocortisone tablets, you say?”

I can see his interest is sparked. “From what I have heard of her condition, these tablets will help her regain her strength and relieve her pain. I know she is fond of dancing. Can you begin her treatment immediately?”

Mr. Lyford smiles. “I am to take the coach to Chawton tomorrow. Leave the tablets with me, my dear. I shall see to it that she takes them properly.”

“Thank you. You do me a great service.” Barely able to contain my elation, I take my leave.

My first stop in modern-day Australia is the bookshop. Amongst the familiar classics rests a seemingly innocuous title: Sanditon. Beside it are three other titles that were not previously part of the English literary canon – and they are by Jane Austen.


NB: Shameless promotion of my favourite P&P quote: "To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love." And who knows? Maybe, since she now lives past 41, she will dance and fall in love again.

For more information about Jane Austen or Addison's Disease, please visit the following links.

http://www.jasa.net.au/jabiog.htm
http://www.endocrine.niddk.nih.gov/pubs/addison/addison.htm
http://www.orchard-gate.com/bmj.htm

The Best Risk

It would be so much simpler to describe the ideal life, or the easy life, or even the hard life. Maybe I'm trying too hard to focus this entry. I think my view of my Best Life changes daily. If it's a Monday and I have a job to go to, even if I have "a case of the Mondays" I know I'm better off than many people. If it's a Friday and I have something fun to go to, I have a sense of anticipation and an excuse to get dressed up. I live for the weekends, when I can read at leisure, take a dance class, Skype my best friend.

For the most part, though, my best life is a work in progress. It's something that's happening now, not in some distant future. I couldn't wish for a better partner than Jody to share the craziness that is our early married life in Australia. I have an education, a loving family, healthy and fun ways to fill my spare time, belongings and indulgences, accomplishments I'm proud of and goals to work toward.

What's best is not always the easiest. So I'm trying to enjoy the life I have, building on it to create something more - something that will give me satisfaction but leave lots of room for improvement. I wouldn't say I'm 100% content right now, but if I were, where would I go from here?

As Jody and I were in the early planning stages of our international move, about this time last year, I was asking anyone and everyone what they thought. It was my uncle who said to me, "The people I know who have taken risks are those who ultimately succeed."

It would have be easier, more ideal, to remain in a town where I know the people, the neighbourhoods, the flow. It was hard to leave. It was impossible to stay.

My best life, then, involves taking some calculated risks. Last year's was a big one, but we haven't regretted our decision to move in favour of dual job opportunities. Already, it has increased our chances of success in the future. Sometimes, my approximation of my best life revolves around much smaller risks. Last week I went to a dance class, and tonight I went back. That I went to a dance class is hardly unusual. It was a risk because I do not consider myself cool enough to hip-hop. (I am so uncool I wonder if there is a hyphen between hip and hop.)

So get out there - pop and lock, talk to that hot classmate, pack your bag. Risk a little, and live.

Blog-Off Images

Grab 'em to let your readers know which post is a blog-off entry!

Incoming: Blog-Off for Babies!

One topic, one week, several blogs... multiple possibilities. Rinse and repeat each week in July.

It's a blog-off! Organised by Nathan of PhilosYphia, the event is threefold:

1) It raises awareness and money for a charity - in this case, the March of Dimes.
2) It encourages expression and a sense of community in the blogosphere.
3) It's fun - and if you participate, you'll 'meet' new people, and you might win some cash!

That's right - we split the entry fees, with 50% raised going directly to the March of Dimes. 50% of the pot, equal to $10 USD x the number of participating bloggers, is prize money - 10% to the runner-up and 40% to the person with the highest total of votes, as determined by the participants.

How does blogging raise awareness, do you ask? It's simple! The more participants, the more readers - and with links between all the blogs, someone who normally reads just your blog might hop on to someone else's. The important thing is, each participating blogger links their weekly post back to the March of Dimes info on Nathan's blog, highlighting the reason for all this writing and voting madness.

Check it out - it's a great opportunity to share your thoughts, get into (or back into) blogging, and encourage someone. The March of Dimes is a U.S. organisation that supports moms and babies, whether they're born healthy or needing special care.

Join us in the Blog-Off for Babies!
Visit Nathan's page for the PayPal link and instructions, and get ready for the first topic to land in your Inbox the first week of July.

Victory

Having gone to the Salvation Army church until my late teens, the first thing that comes to my mind is the old song "Victory in Jesus." I tried to find it online but there are mostly horrendous .midi versions. In case you've never heard it, I did find a fancy piano version (I have no idea how to embed it), but I always imagine a brass band, tambourines and triumphant voices in harmony:


I heard an old, old story,
How a Saviour came from Glory,
How He gave His life on Calvary
To save a wretch like me;
I heard about His groaning,
Of His precious blood's atoning,
Then I repented of my sins
And won the victory.

Chorus
O victory in Jesus,
My Saviour, forever.
He sought me and bought me
With His redeeming blood;
He loved me ere I knew Him
And all my love is due Him,
He plunged me to victory,
Beneath the cleansing flood.

I heard about His healing,
Of His cleansing pow'r revealing.
How He made the lame to walk again
And caused the blind to see;
And then I cried, "Dear Jesus,
Come and heal my broken spirit,"
And somehow Jesus came and bro't
To me the victory.

Chorus


I heard about a mansion
He has built for me in Glory.
And I heard about the streets of gold
Beyond the crystal sea;
About the angels singing,
And the old redemption story,
And some sweet day I'll sing up there
The song of victory.

Chorus


E.M. Bartlett 1939

The words are inspired by 1 Corinthians 15:57, "But thanks be to God, which giveth us
the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." This song was all I could think about today, despite today being a day of victory for me: I finished two more classes toward my degree. A victory dance (like one my friend Michelle saw in the hallway when a guy finished his last class for his degree) is all very well, but it isn't representative of the kind of victory that lasts forever.

The only victory that can last is victory over death. God gave Jesus this power: He rose after three days in a tomb. And now, when someone accepts Christ as their Lord and Saviour, they too gain victory over death. Not the kind where they inhabit the earth after they die, but an even more glorious victory! Anyone who accepts Jesus into their heart has everlasting life in Heaven, in "a mansion [God] has built for me in Glory." We need not fear death when there is something better than life on earth awaiting us. There is no better victory than victory over death.

Some of you are aware that I have two friends whom I call "Aunt" that are battling cancer, which is why I am doing this blog-off. I've consciously tried to withhold cancer references from my posts, trying to see each week's word in a different light. But this week is different, because tonight I heard that Aunt B has chosen to enter hospice care. She was diagnosed almost three years ago and told she had six months to live, but she's still with us... it's only now that she feels it is necessary to leave home for more constant care. She is one of the most incredible women of my acquaintance: a gifted musician, very caring, genuine, and a strong Christian. She is also one of those rare people who ask "How are you?" and really want to know.

Thinking about music, and in particular a song I learned at the Salvation Army, brought Aunt B to mind. Tonight's phone call really struck me: I had to write this post about the old chorus, and about a woman who has been victorious in her battle with cancer thus far. She said to me several months ago that she didn't want to go yet, because she still had work to do for the Lord. Yet she will be content when God calls her home, because she will be going to that mansion, and she will leave the earth knowing God has secured her victory over death, the one thing which so many people are afraid of. While it seems to the medical profession that Aunt B has had an "extra" two and a half years, not to mention a time yet to be determined, none of this is truly borrowed time. It is all in God's plan. Her victory is in Jesus' name, and with Him on her side she has nothing to fear.

Victory does not wave a white flag. It goes down fighting the good fight.

Breasts

Well, I must say that I never thought I would title a blog entry "Breasts." But in the interests of the Blog Off for Breast Cancer, here goes!

I have a friend called Ian. (Cue Evette slapping her hand over her mouth--yes, Evette, *that* Ian.) About five years ago, Ian was invited to dinner at my best friend's parents' house. I wasn't there, but our friend who had a little crush on him was, and by the time the evening was over her crush had waned a bit.

The good dishes were on the table, and a nice meal had been prepared. By the time dessert was ready to be served, Ian was full of good food and feeling very comfortable. He began sharing stories about his recent trip to France with his best friend Dave. One of these stories began, "Dave and I found a great beach, eh?"

Turns out it was a topless beach, and Dave and Ian, who were in their early twenties, really enjoyed their afternoon. Ian, who has never been shy or self-conscious to my recollection, thought nothing of sharing his thoughts on the subject of the topless beach. "Bruce," he said to my friend's dad, "I'm sure you'll agree with me. And Margaret, you're a woman. So I just have to say this:
Breasts are beautiful!"

So, there you have it! Breasts are beautiful.

Take it from Ian.



Click if you can give a donation to help Courtney with her 3-day walk!

If not, please click to fund free mammograms. The breasts will thank you!

Hope

Today marks two months of marriage for Jody and I. It seems appropriate that this week's word is something that has been pivotal in our relationship.
When we met for the second time (the first being several years ago and briefly), I wasn't expecting him to be anything more to me than a great ballroom dance partner. I'd just gotten out of a relationship that had never reached great emotional heights, and went to a casual swing dance, where I was surprised to see Jody. We partnered each other for most of the night--which was unusual for me--and found that we moved really well together. When I asked him, he seemed really interested in taking some ballroom classes with me. And at the end of the night, he walked me outside and wouldn't go home until he saw me safely onto my bus. He said a lady shouldn't wait alone at a bus stop, which made me wonder all the way home.

It appeared that Jody had harboured a hope of dating me since the spring, and a summer of my seeing someone else had only dimmed it a little. He arranged for us to practice dancing at the fabulous Butchart Gardens, and once we were there I couldn't help but suggest we stay and roam around once the dance was over. I hoped the connection I was feeling was more than dance connection.
At the wishing fountain in the Rose Garden (pictured), we discovered that our hopes were not unfounded.


A few weeks went by, and we were entertaining thoughts. Serious thoughts. Yet we both felt unbalanced, insecure in our burgeoning feelings, certain we must be imagining something so suddenly wonderful. But we continued to hope, building our relationship around that light, enveloping feeling that we belonged together. We mentioned hope constantly, trying to hold onto it, as though we were afraid it would slip away.

Eventually we realised that our hope came from a genuine desire to commit ourselves to each other. The hope that we would still be involved with each other next week, next month, next year, became love that was founded in a mutual trust in that initial wisp of emotion. Hope is sometimes seen as a dangerous sentiment, one that can carry us beyond the realistic plans we make for our lives. "Dare I hope?" you might hear someone ask. Hope carries a certain amount of risk. It is only a positive feeling because it lifts us away from believing in a negative alternative.

It's as though it's as weightless as a balloon, this emotion that buoys us and gives us a childlike trust in the unbelievable. And like a balloon, hope is hard to hold onto. It might vanish into the sky at any moment, should you let go. But it is worth holding on. It makes all the difference.



Click the banner above if you can help Courtney by giving her a donation in support of her 3-day walk!
This post is part of the Blog Off for Breast Cancer.

Blog-Off!

And so begins the second round of the blog-off! Our first word is SURVIVOR -- read my post below, please. I am really excited to be doing this; hopefully it will kick-start my creative noodle as well as raise money for a good cause. Check out Five Second Dance Party, Courtney's site, for more info. Kudos to her for doing a three-day walk to fight breast cancer!

You can also click the link on the right to fund mammograms.
Thanks for visiting!

Survivor

For some, it's a reality TV series. For others, it's a media-made hero who walked away from tragedy, or a friend who lived through a ravaging illness. But not everyone has FOX, watches the news, or has an inspiring story that begins in a hospital bed.

There is another kind of survivor: yourself.

You don't have to be Lance Armstrong to be a survivor. Just as your picture on the cover of TIME Magazine or a million dollars would alter the course of your life, so can the simple realisation that you are already a survivor. You've come this far, haven't you? Made tough choices, worked hard, maybe uprooted yourself or made a stand in a crowd.

Each day you inhabit the earth with purpose, you survive.

I know many people who belittle their victories. They're afraid to share what they've accomplished, certain they'll be seen as arrogant. While their high school friends are working, they're the ones at college, pretending to like it but feeling alone--yet they will themselves to go to class, focused on the goal. There is the young woman who fought her way out of an emotionally abusive relationship, and later opened herself up to the possibility of a new love.

Why should these types of victories be any less of a success than the "outwit-outplay-outlast" mentality of Survivor? The so-called reality show pits contestants againts each other in a short-term, all-out battle for money and notoriety. Theirs is a battle of strength and wit, but nothing at all like the daily battles we each face. The toughest opponent you will ever know is yourself. And when you fail, it is on your own terms, and you can't vote yourself off the island. You still have to pay your bills, even if it means there is nothing to eat but tuna and apple juice for a week. You still have to go to work, even if you have been demoted unfairly, until you find a new job. You still have to communicate with the outside world, because life doesn't stop while you get yourself together.

If you're a survivor, you will find a way to overcome the things that burden you. Not ignore them, but overcome them, no matter how insignificant they may seem alongside political disasters or grave illnesses. We all bear different burdens, strengthening our spirits in the process. Many of us are quietly surviving, with others unaware of the struggles we face daily. Perhaps we ourselves are unaware of this tenacity we bring to every day. Each of us has a purpose to discover, a quest that tests and fulfills us. Giving yourself over to that purpose, every day, is what makes you a survivor.