Volunteer Week Part 3- UYDEL

The Colors of Sewing
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Two of our afternoons were spent with the organization UYDEL- Ugandan Youth Development Link. This bold program, started in 1993 with help from the African Youth Alliance (AYA), runs outposts in at-risk neighborhoods where there is little to no mobility, as well as managing centers in every district that offer classes and residential necessities for the most vulnerable youths. Their mission is to provide intervention and help for those who could use it- especially the growing population of orphaned and abandoned children. Their services develop skills, offer training, and eventually provide apprenticeships. Although we weren't able to visit any, I read that there are drop-in centers that operate similarly to Naguru for testing and counseling.

One of the buildings at the Center
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Our first day we visited a post in what I don’t want to call a slum, but for lack of a better term, which was one of six in the city. Inside the small house was a group of women practicing hair-plaiting. Later we were told that most or all of them had been or are being sexually exploited. At the outpost, they learn skills and crafts, and are eventually certified and therefore qualified, for gainful employment. In the meantime they become friends. The power of their connections and the little money they raise from plaiting and sewing helps to keep them from the alternative of commercial sex work. The trades they learn allow the women and girls to turn a profit quickly, and so there is less likelihood of turning back to prostitution.

Getting a punch in my "first world" American face

The Football Game
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That weekend, thirty-six would be graduating from the program, which takes six months to complete. Part of UYDEL’s post-graduate assistance is finding an employer to offer a job or apprenticeship once the youth is eligible. We spent little time at the post, buying some tablecloths and donating some money.

When it was time to walk back to the car, the destitute environs were most apparent. I saw beyond the beautiful children and deep red earth to which I feel connected, and was punched in the face by the life lived there. I had needed a punch in the face. I think most Americans probably do, to begin the humble process of acceptance, and there was mine. It is too easy, downright recommended by our government if you must go, to spend a journey separating yourself from that punch by a car window.

More of the Game
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The next post was in a neighborhood less likely to become septic with the rains. The women in the building were laughing, having gathered only to meet us, and continued in their spirited camaraderie as we sat ourselves inside. The social worker who coordinates the information sessions and other services looked at us with the eyes of a woman who saw many groups of interested white people come and go. She asked us what we were doing here. Thankfully, the representative from the main office introduced us as great American friends. This is because our visit was made possible by an earlier donation. I felt ashamed that we weren’t there to offer months of our time, or life savings. Not that she was rude, but she saw through this none-too-selfless exercise of ours. However, our curiosity and memories might produce the impetus for that great enterprise of “making a difference.” Or, at least, it should.

Singing at the Celebration
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So we introduced ourselves, and the women giggled, shedding their initial shyness. The walls were plastered with informative posters and lesson plans. Everyone was of the same age group, and easy to laugh. They invited us to a party they were holding next week, and allowed us to ask questions.

The other afternoon was spent touring the center where classrooms and residences converge as a home for a few dozen of the youths. Teachers and facilitators, who are Ugandans and one European bloke interning and teaching drama, had classrooms equipped with the bare necessities for seamstress work, welding, carpentry, plumbing, motorbike mechanics, electronics, hairdressing, and others. The welders fused equipment to be used in the facilities, the seamstresses sewed the workman uniforms that many of the above classes require, the carpenters could build beds for the dormitories. The operation was partially sustainable. At the moment, there were forty-seven male youths living on premises. In addition to classes and rehabilitative accommodations, workshops and discussion groups were also held focusing on behavioral change and life skills. Challenges persist with inconsistent electricity and funds for classroom supplies. And of course, the execution of all these programs over a broad reach, is taxing both logistically and personally, in the most rewarding sense.

Dancing!!
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After a tour, we were ushered into the main room, an open space like a student center, where the drama club was preparing a performance. In bright cloth skirts and stomach-baring shirts the women began a poem. One woman in particular knew and felt the words, and soon the others forgot about the strange white people in the front and began to perform. The poem eased into a song, and that into another, until an arduous and backbreaking dance completed the show. The songs were “Tears in Africa,” a beautiful lament by, I believe, one of the facilitators, and “Sons and Daughters of Uganda,” which allowed for an impressive harmony. The dancing involved jumping, complicated steps, torso popping, and the greatest traditional ass-shake, which was faster than you can crack a whip but just as powerful, and repeated to the fastest beat I’d ever seen. The costume included a buttress of goat skin, hair intact, which waved about as though of its own accord. I was enthralled with her dance, and her talent and passion. She saw that and danced over to me, until she stood inches from my face. I didn’t budge, I stared. What an afternoon!

Nobody's Better than Fortunate
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During our second visit to the center a few of the women in my group had their hair done, while I went with two other women to sit in on the sewing lesson happening next door. In the classroom were about two or three dozen desks with built-in Singer sewing machines! The students were practicing seams on brown paper shorts, and some were practicing on scrap with the machines, while others were making shirts and dresses. I felt odd and in the way, like I had invaded a small community to which I had no right of entry or intercourse. But the women were inviting, although shy, and soon they were laughing at our inexperience with pedal-pushing machines. Thanks to the bolder members of our group, there was a little fashion show. I happily shot the pictures, but kept reserved in the corner, trying to share the fun without being able to enter it.

Moses Dancing
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The woman who had so impressed me with her recitation and dancing emerged from the group and agreed to teach us some steps. I felt so awkward in my hiking boots and backpack, that soon I quit, ostracizing myself. It was often during this trip that I needed a moment alone, and during that first week I sought the most solitude. I was so happy to be there, truly in awe of the people and programs I was introduced to, but I struggled to believe that I was welcome. Which is ironic, considering the typical greeting when meeting a Ugandan is “you are welcome,” a most appeasing phrase. The next day, after a celebration with most of the people we had met and become attached to over the last week, when everyone left, I realized that I was wrestling with a mean chunk of anger.

Jump!
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Our celebration began with casual conversation, gained energy and enthusiasm with another performance by the drama club in which the dancer, Fortunate, outdid herself, and culminated in a dinner where we thanked everyone for welcoming us. The evening was moving, and exciting, and I exchanged numbers and emails with youths I had assumed were not very interested in me. Then I realized I was safe, and kind, and maybe meeting new people of those traits is something special for them. As the taxi arrived to take the UYDEL youths home, I sang with them goodbyes, then stole a long moment of solitude before attempting a raucous evening with my fellow travelers.