Over the course of my time here in Africa, I have had numerous discussions with others about whether the money and services being provided by Americans (and other Westerners) are actually helping – or hurting – countries like Uganda.  In other words, does the constant flow of financial and developmental assistance to third-world countries operate as a helping hand to lift them out of poverty, or does this assistance actually have the opposite effect of creating a culture of dependence and national sense of an inability to function independently.

President Paul Kagame of Rwanda, generally thought of as a forward-thinking innovator who has helped Rwanda emerge from its darkest genocide days in the early 1990s into one of the brighter lights of Africa, is a frequent encourager of Africa reducing its dependence on Western aid and the services provided by Western NGOs (non-governmental organizations).  To be clear, he is not at all ungrateful for the support Rwanda and other African countries have received (and continue to receive).  His point is simply that African sovereignty depends upon sustainability and self-reliance, and that Africa needs to always be on the pathway toward independence.

There is, of course, no question that much of what the West has done for Africa has been very good.  For example, it is undisputed that the AIDS epidemic in Africa has been contained by assistance from the West.  Had the billions and billions spent been withheld, the devastation would have been infinitely more severe.  But other programs and expenditures leave the question more open to debate.

I will confess to wondering myself whether some of the work I have been involved in is actually helping as much as I would like to believe.  For instance, when a group of American lawyers descend upon a children’s prison and prepare their cases for resolution so the children can gain access to justice, this feels like a really good thing, and it is.  But if this act then causes the Ugandan government not to provide such services in the future because they believe Americans will keep coming back, then it can actually serve as a long-term detriment.  Accordingly, we are being as careful as possible to integrate Ugandan lawyers into these projects and we are attempting to change structures, rather than fix immediate problems.  Time will tell if these restructuring plans hold.

The challenges that can be encountered when Americans with the purest of motives are not careful when trying to help were starkly illustrated in the past couple of days.  Earlier this week, the Ugandan government closed down an “institution” that was apparently masquerading as an “orphanage.”  Those running this “orphanage” have been arrested and charged with a whole host of fraud and child neglect crimes.  The authorities are alleging this “orphanage” was funded by a civic organization in the United States, which thought it was sponsoring needy children – providing them food, shelter, and education.  Apparently, however, the children were actually not orphans, not really getting any schooling, and living in squalor (the pictures and video were quite disturbing).  In contrast, the individuals who were running this “institution” were apparently living like kings on the $35 per child per month they were receiving.  (Reportedly, most of these children were taken back to their families within hours of the raid, who professed shock and disbelief that their children had not been at a boarding school).  The allegations are that the American civic organization was duped by the Ugandan “orphanage” leaders into believing that it was supporting children in need.  Apparently photographs and descriptions were sent that were completely fabricated.  Supposedly, a member or two from the American civic organization came to Uganda within the past six months, but never actually visited the location in question.  Once again, these are the facts as alleged, which may or may not be ultimately proven.  The government (and others who have lived here in Uganda for quite some time) have no doubts that this is not an isolated incidence of unsuspecting Westerners unwittingly supporting “orphanages” that do much more harm than good.

In contrast to this, earlier this week I met with two pastors from an American church who had just flown into Uganda the day before, and who were flying back home the next day.  They were here to meet with the leaders of the sponsorship program in which many of the church’s members participated.  They met with the leaders of the program, the teachers in the school, and the kids themselves in order to ensure that the money being sent was (i) being used by its recipients to accomplish its intended purpose, and (ii) not doing more harm than good.  Fortunately, they found precisely what they hoped to find, perhaps in no small part because those to whom the money was being sent knew they would be held accountable.  Not only was their money being used in the ways represented to the donors, but this support was also revitalizing the surrounding community by providing jobs for those who were serving and teaching the children.

The contrast between these two scenarios could not be more apparent.  In both cases, there were American families who sincerely wanted to help impoverished children in need of food, shelter, and an education.  In one case, there was a lack of follow up and accountability.  Not only was the money being diverted from its intended purpose, but the fact that money was being sent affirmatively harmed those it targeted – children.  Children were (apparently) taken from their homes and used as tools to enrich unscrupulous people.  In the other case, representatives of those sending money took affirmative steps to ensure that the money was being properly used – to hold the recipients accountable.

I am by no means the first person to issue a word of caution about ensuring that money given for laudable reasons is not actually causing harm – the book “When Helping Hurts” comes to mind.  And I am certainly not an authority on this subject.  But living in Africa exposes one to the harsh realities of this more readily than living in the United States.

In fact, just last evening, I was talking with a friend I have gotten to know fairly well since arriving in Africa.  We were chatting about the differences between street children in Jinja versus street children in Kampala.  We both have a sincere faith and a desire to follow the teachings of Jesus, which includes caring for those in desperate need.  (Though she is younger than I, her life demonstrates a firm understanding of this better than mine does).  I was telling her about my internal struggle every time a child, pregnant mother, or mother holding a small child comes up to our car window to beg at an intersection.  The traffic here is so congested, motorists are constantly harassed by those who seem to be in dire need of food and money.  Aren’t these children and mothers “the least of these” Jesus instructs us to help?  Don’t I have the means to help?  Aren’t I being selfish or self-righteous (even judgmental) if I refuse to help?  On the other hand, doesn’t Jesus also instruct us to be wise and shrewd?

What would Jesus do?

I firmly believe he would instruct us to help.  Perhaps he would want us to provide immediate relief to those in need and leave the judging to him.  I don’t know for sure, but I think, however, he would want us to help in ways that actually help, rather than prolong or exacerbate the pain.  I think he would have us consider both the immediate and long-term consequences of our actions.  And I think he would encourage us to take steps to ensure what we gave was being used to help those it was designed to help.

So what is my point?  Simply this – it seems to me we are called upon to act on the instinct to help, but also to take steps to ensure what we are doing is actually helping.  We should partner with organizations (like World Vision and others) where there are no doubts about how our money is being used.  In the alternative, we should recognize and accept the responsibility to verify how our funds are being used when our giving creates risks of abuse and harm to those we seek to help.

Hello again, readers. I know I haven’t posted in a while; not since I was eleven. Oh, ya. I had a birthday! I’ve been twelve for almost a month, actually. Anyway, today I want to share something really important with you. And that’s the idea of giving generously.  2 Corinthians 8:2 says: Out of the most severe trial, their overflowing joy and extreme poverty welled up in rich generosity. A few weeks ago, I met a girl named Joann at church. I met her when the pastor asked everyone to find a partner and ask them what they wanted you to pray about with them. After that, you got to pray with them. Now, as most of you know, I’m not shy when it comes to meeting new people. But praying with them? That one isn’t quite as easy. Especially when they’re not always praying in English. The first thing I did was turn to my dad. I thought maybe I wouldn’t have to pray with a Ugandan, but I was so wrong. Just then, as if he heard my thoughts, the pastor said, “Not just the person next to you. Find someone that you don’t know.” That was one of those “Really??” moments when I was like, “Okay, God. You want me to meet someone new. I’ll meet someone new. So I turned around and behind me was Joann. She looked to be about thirteen, but after talking with her a while, I found out she was 16 and going to turn 17 in the same week Jessica was. I thought that was pretty cool. We prayed together for a while, and then I went back to my seat. She motioned for me to come sit next to her, and I did. I found out that she came to church with her little sister almost every week. No mother or father was with her. I brought my bible with me, and she started looking at it. I showed her where it had my name engraved on it. She looked through it and I told her why some of the words were red. They were the teachings of Jesus. I asked her if she had a bible, and she shook her head no. My first thought was, “Give Joann the bible.” It seemed like the sort of thing Bob Goff would do. My second and third thoughts were, “No way. This is my bible. It’s been to so many different countries with me, and that was the bible I read when I was thinking about baptism.” And then, “It has my name on it. What would she do with a bible that said Jennifer Gash on the cover?” Was that selfish? Me not giving her my bible? God says that we should give with a grateful heart, and I didn’t. It’s not that my heart wasn’t grateful; I just didn’t give. Flash-forward to a few weeks later. We were doing health screenings at a place called Luzira. Not the prison, Luzira, the community. The first day, there was a group of girls giggling and constantly coming over to speak with the man that was helping me with registration.  One of the girls had on a navy blue windbreaker, even though it was hot outside. They called him Uncle Savoi. (Pronounced like Savior but without the r on the end. The next day, we came back to do more health screenings. The same girls were still crowding him. Later, I got a chance to talk to them. The girl in the windbreaker was named Grace. She was just so nice, one of the only girls brave enough to ask me questions like, “What classes do you take in school?” She was in P7 (seventh grade) and REALLY tall. For a Ugandan, at least.  Grace wanted to be a lawyer when she grew up. I played games with the girls and boys there, like their own version of hopscotch. I lost every game and they would just crack up. At the end of the day, I wanted to buy some gum from the “convenience store” on the corner. Grace was there, too. She asked me if I liked biscuits, and I said yes, thinking this was another one of her questions, but it turned out to be more than that. Grace bought a biscuit and took it out of the bag. She broke it and held out half to me. Thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes. That was all she had for that day. She used her pocket money to buy something to share with me. We shouldn’t be selfish with our giving, because it is all to God. Every last cookie crumb is for God.

Thanks, Jennifer

Before coming to Uganda nearly three months ago, I had no intention of becoming a pirate.

I know pirates.  Some good friends of mine are pirates.  I am no pirate.  Of that, I was sure.  Now, nearly three months into our Ugandan adventure, I think I might be a pirate.

“But I don’t want to be a pirate.”

Those of you who are Seinfeld fans will immediately recognize the quote from the Puffy Shirt episode.  But my desire not to be a pirate has nothing to do with a large white blouse with a ridiculous number of ruffles.

The Puffy Shirt Episode

Let me start at the beginning.  During my first visit to Uganda over two years ago, I was walking through a market area in Kampala with Pepperdine alumnus John Napier and some others.  Someone approached us clandestinely and asked if we wanted to buy a movie.  John brushed him off nicely, and we continued to walk.

“What kind of movies was he trying to sell us?”  I inquired.

“You name it – they have old movies, classics, and movies still in the theater,” he explained.  “They are all pirated, though.  You cannot buy a legitimate movie in this whole country.  They simply don’t sell them.”

Curious, I asked him if he was a pirate.  He laughed and told me that he wrestled with what he would do early on, but had reached a compromise in his own mind after a few months in Uganda.  He would buy the pirated movies, but resolved to legitimize his purchase when he got back to the United States by buying or renting the same movie when he got back.  While it made sense to me, I must confess that the righteously indignant part of me winced a bit about what I perceived to be a healthy dose of rationalization.  I would never be a pirate, I thought, but didn’t say.

Fast forward to three weeks ago.  Joline and I went to see “Seeking Justice” at the local theatre (that’s how they spell it here).  It was a Nicolas Cage flick that was short on plot, long on action.  Afterward, we went to the grocery store to get some stuff before heading home.  Attached to the grocery store is a video store.  It doesn’t hurt to look, right?  In the store were a couple thousand American and Indian movies in what were clearly photocopied DVD jackets.  The disks themselves were blank DVDs with the name of the movie handwritten on them.

“Are these legitimate, legal movies?” I asked.

“Yes, of course,” came Pinnochio’s reply.

On the counter was a three-ring binder with photocopied movie jackets in plastic page protectors.  “You have these movies also?” I asked.

“Yes, but they are behind the counter in the drawer.  You can look through the binder and tell me which ones you want,” said the man whose nose by now made Barry Manilow (or Squidward, for SpongeBob fans) look understated.

As I glanced through the binder, I noticed several movies that I really wanted to see, including Act of Valor.  I also noticed that “Seeking Justice” was in there – the movie we had just seen.

“How much for the movies?” I inquired.

“Five Thouthand shillings,” came the reply (that’s how they say thousand).

Two bucks.  My resolve began to weaken, but I caught myself and simply walked away.

One week later, temptation reappeared.  I was at a gas station with my driver when some dude knocked on my window.  I ignored him.  Lots of people knock on my window in Kampala.  They are usually kids with an outstretched arm, open hand, and a sad face.  “Sello.  Mzungu, you give me money,” they demand.  It is really sad, but giving them money guarantees that they will remain on the streets begging.  (I know that this sounds heartless, but I can assure you that we have thought through this thoroughly and are convinced that giving them money will ultimately harm more than help them and others in their position).

But this knock was from an adult, and he looked vaguely familiar.  He held up about twenty movies, and yelled “You want good movie, Mzungu?”  Was this the dude that approached me and Napier a couple years ago?  Couldn’t be, could it?  And yes, the top movie on the pile was . . . Act of Valor.  Against my better judgment, I rolled down my window.  He thrust the movies into my hands.

“How much for ‘Act of Valor?’”

“I give you discount price, Mzungu.  Five thouthand.”

“How do I know that this is a good copy?”

He pointed to the cover where the words “Clear Copy” were printed on the front.

Seeing that I was contemplating the purchase, he dropped the latest “Mission Impossible” onto my lap and said, “you buy this one too and I give you special price – ten thouthand.”

“How is that a special price,” I laughed.  “And this one doesn’t say ‘Clear Copy’ on the front.  Is this a clear copy?”

“Yes.”

“How do I know that?”

“You trust me, Mzungu.”

I almost cracked a rib laughing so hard, but ultimately the art of the deal got the better of me and I bought them both for eight thousand.  Looking back now, I think that was my first toke from the crack pipe.

The next day, I purposely drove to a video store I had seen when I was looking for apartments for the Pepperdine students who are coming to Kampala for the summer.  The store is on a narrow street in what is a poor excuse for a strip mall.  There is parking on the side of the street where the shops are, but not on the other side of the street because the street is otherwise too narrow to allow for traffic.  As I pulled into the only open space, a guy wearing a really baggy canvas orange vest (like the paperboys used to wear) approached me and told me that I would need to pay him to park there.  On his vest was scrawled “Parking Patrol.”  I had seen something similar before, and if it wasn’t legit, it was at least creative.  I gave him one thousand shillings and asked for a receipt.  After he gave me a puzzled look, I told him I was joking and walked into the store.

I will confess to feeling a little tentative and guilty (like the first time I entered a casino), but I entered the store nevertheless.  I had the scent and I was on the prowl for a fix.  The binder that this store had was twice as thick as the one in the grocery store.  In the end, I selected ten movies.  The cost – thirty thousand ($12).

When I went to pay, he waved me off and said, “you pay when you pick up the movies.  They will be ready in an hour,” he said as he pointed toward his computer and stack of blank DVDs.

Subtle, I thought.  He makes no pretense of being legitimate.  My conscience tried to cry out, but I rammed a sock in its throat.  “Shut it.  We are in Uganda – we have no choice,” I told my sputtering inner voice.

When I came back to pick up the movies, there was nowhere to park on the side of the street where the stores were, but there was a row of cars parked on the other side of the street, and they were straddling the curb – two-thirds of the car was on the sidewalk, and one-third in the street.  Monkey see, monkey do.  Parking Patrol Paper Boy jogged up to me and I slipped him another thousand shillings.  When I got back into the store, the previously blank DVDs were in clear plastic DVD wrappers with the names scribbled on them.  As I paid, my conscience spit out the sock and started to cuss at me, but I punched him in the stomach and paid the nice entrepreneur behind the counter.

When I got back into the car, I turned the ignition.  The engine turned over, but wouldn’t catch.  I tried it again.  And again.  And again.  “Told you, filthy sinner.  God is punishing you,” blurted my conscience.

Hook, uppercut, sidekick.  My conscience fell silent again.

I remembered that the car was very low on fuel, which is a constant in Uganda – no one fills up all the way with gas because they live from day to day and don’t want to get their tank syphoned by a thief.  I wondered if the angle of my car, which was pretty heavily leaning because I was mostly up on the raised sidewalk, might be depriving the engine of fuel.  So I summoned my inner Einstein and decided that since I was pointing downhill, I could put the car in neutral, take off the emergency brake, then start to roll forward.  I had just enough room to steer into the street without hitting the car in front of me.  So I did.  Miscalculations abounded.

First, without the car actually on, I had no power steering.  Had I not been eating steroids like Skittles, I wouldn’t have had the massive upper body strength necessary to crank the wheel enough to just barely miss the parked car in front of me.

Second, the downward gradient of the road was so slight that I quickly created a traffic jam behind me as I inched along futilely trying to start the car as I crawled forward.  No dice.

Third, without the car actually on, I had no power brakes.  As the downward gradient steepened (and just in time because the guy behind me nearly broke his wrist as he beat the crap out of his horn), I realized that I had no exit strategy.  I guess I thought it was going to work.  Cars to the left of me, cars to the right of me, honking cars behind me, intersection in front of me.  I won’t even start to tell you what word was going through my mind.  It rhymes with . . . well, you can guess.

As panic (and the steroids) kicked in, I was able to jam on the brake with both feet and drift into a driveway where there was a clearing near the bottom of the hill.  And no, it didn’t occur to me until writing this that I could have put on the hand emergency brake.

After my blood pressure returned to a level that allowed me to dial a phone, I called my driver and told him that the car wouldn’t start.  “No problem.  Just push the lock and unlock button on the keychain a few times.  It will then start.”  (Since my original car was in the shop, this was a rental and he had forgotten to tell me about this quirk).

It started right away, and I made it home with the pirate booty.  The kids were thrilled since most of the movies I got were for them, at least as far as you know.

So, am I a pirate?  Perhaps, but I have decided to follow the Napier rule.  We will destroy the movies before we come home.  Any movie we bought here and watched once, we will rent at home (and not watch it).  Any movie we watch more than once here, we will buy it when we get home.  I encourage anyone who reads this to hold me accountable for this.

One of my friends jokes that her spiritual gift is justification.  Perhaps it is contagious, matey.