Kiev, Kharkov, Zhitomir—-May, 2013: On assignment to produce a video for Xado, a global corporation headquartered in Kharkov (aka Kharkiv), founded from the ground up by a self-made Ukrainian businessman with a typical American story of hard work and perseverance. In Ukraine’s second largest city, I found that hospitality and professionalism were outstanding.
To reach Kharkov I had to land in Kiev (aka Kyiv), a gorgeous European capital famous for stunning, trendy women, fabulous food and picturesque historic architecture.
If your ancestors are Ukrainian — and mine are–you are considered family in this country and receive the royal treatment like a long lost cousin finally coming home. I was embraced by the family of a Ukrainian friend of a friend in Florida like I knew them all my life. Members met me at the hotel in Kiev, showed me unforgettable sites, made a special dinner in my honor and gave me delicious gifts to take home with goodbye hugs and tears at the airport.
Wherever we went, I was introduced to people in Russian or Ukrainian and when they learned that I’m from America with roots in their country, they lit up and gave me offerings, like food throughout the market.
I was overwhelmed by Ukrainian hospitality, generosity and kindness for the brief, intense two days there. I felt reunited with my Kiev family from a past life; how else to explain it?
After the video shoot, I took a detour for a couple of days to Zhitomir (aka Zytomir), the city where my maternal great grandparents and grandfather were born. In my lifetime, I never thought I would see “the old country” of my ancestors. As with others who take a journey to their roots, it was an emotional and enlightening experience. A cousin, keeper of the family history, found the name of their homeland so I was able to arrange a visit. With Bubbie, Zadie and Grandpa long gone, much research went into the preparation and many questions were answered during the visit.
Zhitomir contained one of a few thriving Jewish communities in “the Pale” under the anti-Semitic Russian empire, which included “the Ukraine.”
When sanctioned pogroms became massive and violent, peaking around the turn of the 20th century, many Jews fled in a mass migration out of Russia to America as steerage class on ships. My ancestors were among those landing at Ellis Island.
Ilya, assistant to a Hassidic rabbi in Zhitomir, gave me a tour of the community where my ancestors probably lived. It was destroyed by the Nazis in WW II. I saw the destruction, rebuilding without government remembrance and the renewal of a Jewish community taking roots under the rabbi’s guidance. There is a community center, orphanage, award-winning school today doing remarkable work with few funds. So far, this fragile community is surviving in the current unrest. I mailed a few souvenirs to my cousin in appreciation for finding the name of the city.
Upon returning home, I put together a PowerPoint presentation entitled “Journey to My Roots in the Ukraine.” The 45-minute presentation with 98 photos includes the research and more extensive findings that apply to most of us with Ukrainian roots.
The night before I gave the first presentation, my cousin passed away. I dedicated the presentation to her with gratitude. I journeyed to Ukraine to produce a video and found my roots and a new family along the way.
October, 2013—On assignment to produce a video for Coway, a global corporation established in Seoul 24 years ago that designs/manufactures state-of-the-art home wellness appliances. In many ways, the company exemplifies the soul of South Korea.
South Korea is a miracle. That is also said about Israel and for similar reasons. Survival is a big one. From 1950 – 53 it was almost consumed by Communism, overwhelmed by the military might of the North in a surprise invasion. Thanks to the United Nations, especially the U.S. Armed Forces, under the command of Gen. MacArthur the Communist North was pushed back to the original Military Demarcation Line, which still splits the country following a 1953 armistice agreement. Israel fought back and survived a similar aggressive attack after WW II.
When the Korean War ended, Gen. MacArthur concluded, “Unless a miracle happens before us, it will take 100 years for the country to restore.” That’s the second miracle. Like Israel, it only took 30 years.
South Korea was in ruins after the war, its people were refugees in their own country. Families were separated permanently, cut off in the middle, their fates sealed on one side or the other of the Military Demarcation Line.
By 1970, South Korea was actually poorer than North Korea. Yet in just 30 years, the South became an economic giant at the start of the 21st century, Asia’s fourth largest economy.
How this small country of 50 million accomplished it after total devastation is for books and documentaries. What I saw was the power of Democracy in the thriving South dominating over the sad failure of Communism prevailing in the North. Like Israel, Democracy triumphed over dictatorship at its border, but still forever vigilant about constant threats.
Seoul is a modern, civilized 21st century safe city, population 20 million (greater Seoul), where politeness is high and crime is low.
Like Israelis, Koreans seriously value education. I’m told that 80% are fully educated, completing high school or college. The airport, skyscrapers, City Hall, palace parks, restaurants, shopping districts are marvels of the super modern. All signs are in English.
Innovation is another miracle. Like Israel, it is evident in electronics, telecom and autos with behemoths like Samsung, LG Electronics, Hyundai. Even entertainment, Gangnam Style, helps drive their export economy.
A Coway team leader likened Korea’s economic growth miracle to Israel’s with admiration, “Only they are so far ahead in Nobel Prize winners,” he said. Like Israelis, Koreans pray for peace. They yearn for reunification of their country, thus their families. Peace bells and monuments to veterans of the Korean War appear everywhere.
Americans are appreciated for saving them from a life under a “Dear Leader” dictatorship. It was refreshing to feel the gratitude, as it was in Israel.
My most moving experience in Seoul was at the magnificent Korean War Museum, where the war’s profound importance and reenactments are unforgettable.
In Israel, the most moving experience was also at a war memorial, the astonishing Holocaust Memorial Museum. Both are documented reminders of horrors overcome in such a short period of time.
Add to that, the Dorasan train station, a pristine perfect passenger station ready to roll to Pyeongyang.
The northernmost train station in South Korea, Dorasan sits well groomed as a symbol of hope for reunification the moment a Dear Leader says, “all aboard!” I felt sad for the station’s long, hapless wait for that moment of connection, but South Koreans maintain it with a positive attitude of not “if,” but “when.”
In the same day, as the museum and train station, I experienced the Korean Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) only 35 miles north of Seoul. A contradiction in terms, here lies the most heavily militarized and hostile border of land in the world: estimated two million troops locked and loaded in close proximity, land mines, barbed wire, heavy military hardware, trigger incidents and incursions. Yet between the deadly lines of an uneasy truce 2.5 miles apart lies an untouched natural preserve peacefully inhabited by endangered species.
Like Israelis, South Koreans are enterprising, turning a negative into a positive. They discovered four infiltration tunnels at the DMZ built by North Korea for a post-armistice invasion. The South Koreans turned two of them into tourist attractions on their side of the line. The word is that Kim Jung Un is pissed because South Korea is raking in tourist money from the tunnels that his side built. He wants a cut!
And he wants a kickback from their souvenir shop built at the DMZ, now the South’s biggest tourist attraction! Insanity is surreal.
Do South Koreans worry about him? They all said no. Every year there is a saber rattling incident perpetrated by the North. As in Israel, on the Democratic side people have taken measures to deflect a possible attack and go about their lives hopeful, building, growing and prospering.
Background On assignment to write/produce/direct a mini-documentary for the humanitarian volunteer medical NGO called CHIMES (Calif.-Honduras Institute for Medical & Educational Support). CHIMES brings free medicine from the US and organizes missions of volunteer medical professionals from the US, Cuba and Honduras who together deliver health care to the Garifuna people. This is a distinct ethnic group living in the poorest region in this second poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. The village, Ciriboya, is so remote that most have never seen a doctor or a pill and they die of treatable diseases because access to the village is so challenging.
CHIMES raised funds to buy building materials for the Garifuna Medical Center in Ciriboya where medicine and health care are provided free of charge (free clinic). The entire community helped build the modest center to serve remote people for miles around.
The Garifuna people descended from a blend of Africans and indigenous Caribbean Indians (Caribs). Two 17th century Spanish slave ships bound for the West Indies shipwrecked off St. Vincent Island; the African captives swam to shore and to freedom. They integrated with the Caribs forming a new ethnic group with its own distinct language and culture. Also called Black Caribs, they were later rounded up by the British and transported to Honduras. There are some 200,000 Garifuna today, mostly in Central America. Proud of their heritage escaping slavery, they nonetheless live in poor, isolated regions with impassable roads, are ignored by the Honduran government and discriminated against by the Latino population. They are bi-lingual (Garifuna and Spanish) and some speak English. My Spanish served well enough.
The Cuban government responded to their need for medical professionals by providing several hundred Honduran Garifuna with full medical scholarships to study for a medical degree at Cuba’s Latin American Medical School (ELAM). Upon graduating, they committed to return and serve their people. CHIMES is helping to build outpost clinics where the Honduran Garifuna doctors can deliver health care to their people living in remote jungle areas.
August 6—Miami/San Pedro Sula airport/La Cieba
The cameraman and I are warmly greeted at the airport by Bill Camp, founder of CHIMES, and his wife Katherine along with US doctors and nurses volunteering on this medical mission. I bring a carton of OTC medicine donated by PL Developments; the doctors arrive with many cartons and tubs of medicine.
Bill drives us in an air-conditioned van for three hours along a single lane paved highway. We pass gorgeous countryside, lush green, thick with palm trees, vegetation, crops and rolling green hills. By contrast, the primitive living conditions, thatched-roof huts and rubble are distressing. People sit in the shade idle, children have nothing to play with, adults have no jobs. Others walk or bicycle with heavy sacks of goods along the dangerous shoulders of the road in the sweltering heat. We sleep overnight at the air-conditioned La Quinta Hotel in the city of La Cieba, the most comfortable place on the journey.
Aug. 7—La Ceiba to Ciriboya (5 ½ hours)
The next morning we start out on paved highway for awhile which turns into crushed rocks. The road is bumpy and potholed for another hour, but we are warned to brace ourselves for a lot worse. Sure enough, the further away from the city, the more remote the region, the bigger the rocks and the greater the potholes in number and depth.
While bumping and grinding over impassable roads for 4 hours, I marvel at the dedication of Bill and volunteer medical personnel who soldier this 8 ½ hour road trek several times a year! It is exhausting and dangerous. I’m concerned about the tires holding up on such hostile roads; if one blows we are stuck in a remote region. Only a few pick-up trucks an hour are passing us.
We arrive in Ciriboya on the Caribbean Sea via impossible roads dotted by primitive mud and wood huts. The one-lane driving bridge over a swollen stream to our destination is broken in pieces. So Bill drives our diesel van down into the muddy water, which comes up to the top of the tires as we cross to the other side. I’m thinking we won’t make it, the van will fill with water and we will all die. Miraculously we cross to the other side. Non-diesel vehicles don’t make it. And that’s how we enter and exit the road daily, confident we have to do it because the government will never show up to make bridge repairs.
Except for beds and indoor plumbing, our accommodations lack everything else including air conditioning, screens on windows and electricity at night. We were advised to bring our own towels, sheets, pillows, soap, shampoo, toilet paper, special bug spray, flashlights, Cipro and anti-malaria pills. Everything I pack will be donated to the Garifuna people when I leave.
Aug. 8–Medical Conference
Some 120 volunteer medical personnel from the US, Cuba and Honduras (Garifuna) are convening in this remote area of Honduras for a 10- day medical conference conducted by Dr. Luther Castillo Harry, a Garifuna MD and medical director of the Garifuna Medical Center. CHIMES, AHMEN and MEDICO are among the participating NGOs who are also setting up a medical brigade. The medical seminars are conducted in small community center buildings, where information about treatment methods is shared.
Hundreds of locals line up outside in the heat at the intake doors to see doctors and nurses from the three countries working in the medical brigades. They need health services for lacerations, dental problems, severe pain, bad backs, malnutrition, stomach parasites, malaria, pre/post natal care, pediatrics and more. Some medical personnel make house calls to deliver services.
Bill has committed to help Dr. Luther Harry deliver medicine and health care to his people. At the modest Garifuna Medical Center, locals are already lined up outside to see medics. Cartons of donated medicine are loaded from the truck to the pharmacy, which is not air conditioned, and medicine is dispensed to waiting patients.
There are no restaurants here, so Garifuna women cook three meals a day for 120 conference attendees. The food is tasty, typical Spanish dishes. It remains a mystery how they pulled it off in primitive conditions.
August 9
After a couple of days videotaping, we must head back to Progresso a city near the airport. It’s an 8 ½ hour journey without stopping. We are in a different truck with a different driver and thanks to Cipro I’m gratefully recovering from last night’s illness. Once again, the potholed rocky road presents a four-hour roller coaster nightmare before rubber finally meets asphalt. I conclude that for the isolated Garifuna, access to health care must start with a paved road, but the Honduran government will never build one. Even if they don’t, volunteers will always come.
More photos from the field are at http://www.picasaweb.google.com/hawaiikaren KL
I received the assignment to produce a video in Antarctica for a polar expedition company (Quark Expeditions) with mixed emotions: thrilled about an adventure of a lifetime/ fear of freezing. The freezing part is justified: I have Raynaud’s disease, a medical condition defined as a hypersensitivity or allergy to cold that can cause hands and feet to discolor.
Being cold-challenged, I wear a sweater when entering a supermarket because the refrigerated sections make me shiver. Same with air- conditioned buildings. Snorkeling in Hawaii was impossible without a wet suit. Winters in Washington, D.C. froze me out with multi-colored hands, and for 10 years I bundled up on the beach in Los Angeles.
Antarctica? I have spoken the name of that continent maybe once in my life and turned blue.
The subject of the mini-documentary was a tourist adventure expedition to Antarctica for 10 days that included land and water activities and encounters with penguins and seals.
With a little luck, drugs and a gown of down, I had hoped to survive the expedition to tell the tale and declare a victory over supermarkets.
I did extensive research about gear/clothing for extremely cold climate, but did not find a clear and detailed list. Finally, a week before the voyage and no clothes for it, I walked into an upscale ski store to be outfitted. I left with $800 (incl. tax) worth of layers/gear, not including the boots and parka (provided by the expedition company).
After 6 days in the Antarctic peninsula (South Shetland Islands), I can report that the gear worked to keep even me warm in some seriously cold weather.
How cold was it? Antarctica is an ice continent; the coldest, windiest, driest (and highest) one on Earth. It is gorgeous and mysterious, accessible to tourists only in summer.
Although it was mid-November (summer), temps were mostly in the teens (F). But with wind chill from blizzards, some days were well below that. It got up to the 40s one day, a few days hit the 20s or teens without wind for a few hours, but mostly it was windy and snowy much like I imagine Canada in winter.
Visiting 12 islands, I rode daily in a zodiac boat from ship to shore, went hiking in the snow, kayaked,
camped overnight in a pup tent on ice and snow during a blizzard, visited a couple of scientific research stations, took zodiac tours of glaciers and icebergs;
and spent hours following, observing and photographing penguin colonies, seals and birds. Regardless of the weather conditions and activities,
THE CLOTHES WORKED TO KEEP ME WARM!
From someone with Raynaud’s disease in Antarctica, this is the list of clothing to know about because it all worked in sub-zero temps.
Keeping warm starts with 3 layers and the unique fabric technology of each layer.
1. Base Layer (top/bottom): warm-wear moisture transfer fibers (MTF)
The MTF base layer is a patented knitting fabric that fits like second skin. It’s a tightly knit polyester micro fiber blended with Lycra. The MTF yarns create a weather barrier to keep you warmer and dryer because moisture from perspiration gets dispersed and evaporated quickly. Looks like tights; is machine wash/dry.
(retail: $55/each, top/bottom)
Thermolite is soft, flexible, durable insulation for movement and warmth. This is a slightly heavier layer than the base layer, yet thin. The inside of the fabric feels soft and warm; the outside is smooth. The top piece has a half-zipper to pull over the head. This layer can also be worn alone, but on top of the base layer the two kept me very warm. Machine wash/dry. (retail: $79 each, top/bottom)
3. Outer layer: waterproof/windproof/durable layer worn over the mid layer (ski pants, parka)
The lightweight ski pants didn’t restrict movement. Gore-tex 2-layer shell: a thin, soft polyester lining inside and a thin, sturdy outer shell. The pants have features: expandable waistline, brushed tricot pocket liners for warmer hands, waterproof leg zippers, zippered cuff bottom openings in the legs with inner boot gaiters with elastic gripper to help prevent water from getting up. My legs were kept warm and dry getting in and out of zodiacs and in blizzard conditions. Machine wash/dry (retail: $279)
b) Parka: 100% thick nylon outer shell, 100 % polyester (fleece) inner jacket with 100% nylon outer top
This is such a crucial garment that Quark Expeditions refers to it as a “piece of equipment for the polar regions, not a fashion statement.” Quark manufactures and provides the parka to each passenger complementary. It can also be purchased from their Website.
It’s a 3-in 1 miracle of construction that ensured my survival. Long enough to cover my butt when sitting in the zodiac, the parka is lined with a zip-in-out fleece jacket liner that doubles as insulation and also as a stand-alone fleece jacket in warmer weather (40s or higher). The outer yellow shell of thick nylon with lined hood and neck straps was fully waterproof/windproof. Without the jacket lining, it serves as a water-windproof jacket. The entire “piece of equipment” is loaded inside and out with pockets, zippers, Velcro fasteners, snaps, hook rings. (from Quark: $250)
4. Foot layers (sock liners, socks, boots)
a) Sock liner: Thermasilk fabric (80% spun silk, 20% stretch nylon)
This thin, light, soft fabric sock comes just under the knee. Wash/wear (retail: $12/pair, 2 pair)
b) Socks: SmartWool fabric (a wool-on-wool Duroyarn fabric technology).
My feet, including toes, were kept warm and dry. Machine wash/wear (retail: $21-26/pair, 2 pair)
c) Boots: Quark loaned these to each passenger for the duration of the voyage because boots are indispensible. They were lined, rubber, sized boots that came up between calf and knee. (from Quark: $140)
5. Hand layers: Gore-Tex storm-proofing
a) Glove liner: Dryride Thermex fabric, 4-way stretch with sticky grip palm.
The thinner liner was warm enough to wear by itself for short periods of time (like when taking photos)
b) Gloves: Gore-tex 3-in-one fabric for sub-zero conditions with top zipper pocket for a hand-warmer. I needed gloves with fingers, which are not as warm as mitten style gloves. Even with the glove liner, hands got chilly at times because I forgot to take glove warmers to put in the top zippered pockets. (retail: $65/liner and gloves)
6. Neck: 100% acrylic neck warmer worked perfectly to keep out wind. Machine wash/dry (retail: $12).
7. Head: 100% acrylic snug -fitting hat to forehead that covered ears worked well. Machine wash/dry (Retail in Ushuaia: $7).
8. Eyes:
In blizzard conditions, I wore goggles with interchangeable silver/amber lenses for brightness and they kept snow and wind out of my eyes. (retail: $65). Otherwise, I wore a pair of plastic, full UV-protection sunglasses, or nothing some days.
9. Camera: a DrySac or moisture protector was needed for expensive camera equipment. Cameras with lithium ion batteries did fine. Unfortunately, I had a digital camera that used AA batteries. They kept freezing so I was unable to take many photos. Same problem with the mini video camera. But I did have some luck:
On assignment to write/produce/direct a mini-documentary in Vietnam for East Meets West Foundation (EMWF), a humanitarian NGO that established programs for severely disabled offspring of Agent Orange survivors and others with disabilities.
Agent Orange (AO) is an herbicide/defoliant contaminated with dioxin, a powerful poisonous chemical. It devastates trees and causes gene mutations in humans, which are passed on for generations. In a country of 86 million, about five million Vietnamese were exposed to AO during the war with the US. More than three million offspring of Vietnamese AO survivors suffer from birth defects, deformities and other serious health problems. During the Vietnam War, the US military sprayed AO in various provinces for nine years to kill jungle tree cover and expose the Communist army’s hiding places. High levels of dioxin are still found in the environment and in the blood of Vietnamese people living in the AO “hot spots.”
I asked EMWF staff in Hanoi how they feel about Americans today. The program development director, in her late 30s, was a toddler during “The American War.” At one point in the bombing, she and her parents had to evacuate Hanoi on the back of a water buffalo. They returned to devastation.
“We have moved on,” she said. “We are not looking back, we cannot change what happened. We are focused on healing and re-building our country. We don’t blame the war on the American people; we know that many were against it. We hold the American government responsible. Now we welcome Americans, they help our economy.” This may be the Buddhist way: look to the future, heal, re-build, find the positive.
A Day in Da Nang:
Staff from EMWF drive me and my cameraman to four sites where we experience the human wreckage from AO in children and adults. Although some severely disabled are not offspring of parents exposed to dioxin, most are. One rehab center is filled with children and adults engaged in various types of therapy to build their strength and stamina while parents watch or assist. At Da Nang’s modern rehab hospital, a crowd of parents bring their sweet, well-behaved youngsters born with serious birth defects into the hospital’s huge rehab room.
The children are placed on a large, raised mat where physiotherapists administer gentle exercise therapy while parents observe or learn what to do to help their children. One deformed four-year-old walking with a limp has a big hump in the middle of her back; another has deformed feet and missing fingers. Everyone is quiet, respectful, gentle. They smile at me and the cameraman. The scene is heart-wrenching.
Our third stop is a visit to a recipient family’s “home.” We walk up an alley to a one-room windowless hovel the size of a kitchenette (9m square) where a single mother and her three young children are living like cell inmates. I see a kitchen sink and a curtain that encloses a tiny area serving as both shower and bathroom. A rusty old bike is propped outside the door, their only transportation.
Mrs. Thuong, a gracious 44-year-old mother with a friendly smile, greets us warmly and offers water and tangerines, all she has. Her teenage son–deaf, blind and immobile with cerebral palsy– lays like a vegetable on the only bed, which is made of straw. The other three sleep on the floor. Her disabled daughter, eight-year-old Phuong, wears a plastic spine prosthesis around her midriff to help correct a backbone birth deformity.
She is a bundle of energy hugging and drawing pictures for us at her little wooden desk. She is very bright, receiving a three-year scholarship from EMWF that includes school supplies and the prosthesis for her and a forthcoming wheel chair for her brother. The youngest child was at school. The father is imprisoned for six years for causing a truck accident (details unknown), so Mrs. Thuong must work. She’s a garbage collector, the lowest of jobs, earning $38/month (USD).
We videotape the “home” and the family, but I decide against an interview in the claustrophobic room off a noisy alley. As we depart, the cameraman and I each hand the mother a few dollars in Vietnam dong and she thanks us profusely. Phuong runs after us with two of her drawings as gifts of thanks. The drawing she gives the cameraman depicts a house, a man inside at a door holding a suitcase. Three small children are behind him, one little girl with tears running down her face.
Back in the van, I discussed with the staff how to help this lovely single (separated) mother of three, two of the children seriously disabled, all four living together in such deplorable conditions. One staff member has already petitioned local authorities for better living conditions and services for this family and even featured them in their literature, but so far no help is forthcoming. At least EMWF is providing Phuong with a multi-year scholarship for school supplies and expenses.
Our final stop was at a center the Vietnam Veterans of America Foundation established for Agent Orange victims and other disabled. We spent a few hours videotaping wonderful programs here then meeting with the director, whose goal is to open many more centers.
At the end of a long day, the van dropped me off at a lovely modern hotel across from a Da Nang river and boardwalk. I felt grateful to enter the clean, bright, modern lobby and my large room with a view and all the amenities. With dusk approaching, I needed to take a quick walk and change some money. The adjacent street was teaming with women lining both sides selling fresh fish, fruits and vegetables. It was such a colorful collection of food that I bent down to get some shots with my camera.
When I stood up, a mother and young daughter appeared magically before me. We stared at each other for a few seconds, confused, trying to recall why we look so familiar.
Then, like in the scene with Drew Barrymore and “ET,” we screamed simultaneously in disbelief of the encounter. Phuong flung her arms around me; I almost crushed her prosthesis in the hug. Hearing all the excitement and commotion with the only Caucasian on the street, a crowd of women gathered around us. I asked if anyone spoke English, but not here. So I gave Mrs. Thuong some dong and gestured to buy food with it. Then I took Phuong’s hand and walked to the fruit section. I gestured while speaking in English that she should pick out her favorite fruits. She didn’t understand, but fortunately one woman who had just arrived understood and translated. Phuong picked tangerines, so I bought her a bag with the last few dong in my wallet.
The child was so excited jumping up and down, gesturing to me and her mother that now we must cross the street and walk along the picturesque boardwalk.
She placed the tangerines and her drawing paper and pencil on a stone table there, where her mother parked the rusty old bike that brought them. They were undisturbed by passers by. Despite her disability, Phuong flittered from statute to statue nimbly climbing them all along the boardwalk as I snapped photos of her.
Like a kid in an amusement park, we rushed to keep up with her.
Mrs. Thuong spoke excitedly to me in Vietnamese, which I don’t understand, so I stopped a trendy-looking young woman observing us with curiosity and asked if she spoke English. “A little bit.”
“Great, please ask this mother what she is trying to tell me.”
“She said her family has a lot of problems. But she is so happy to see you. She wants a photo with you.”
“I already have photos with her and her daughter taken at their house today. See, in my digital camera. Maybe I can mail them to her.”
“No, she wants a photo she can take with her to put in her house.”
How in the world can I do that? Just then a man with a big camera magically appeared on the boardwalk heading toward us. My translator explained that this man can take a photo and develop it immediately in his car. I gave the boardwalk photographer $2 to take a couple of shots of me, mother and daughter. He returned in a few minutes with a nice 5 x 7 photo of us, which I handed to Mrs. Thuong. She and Phuong admired it and thanked me.
We hugged as we parted, Phuong not letting go of my hand. Her mother asked for my address, which I wrote on her daughter’s drawing pad. Heading in opposite directions while waving goodbye, Mrs. Thuong pointed to me and called out something in Vietnamese. I turned to my volunteer for the translation:
“She said, ‘I will never forget you.’ “
Postscript:
After returning home, I bought a colorful pop-up book about Delray Beach for Phuong and slipped it into a FedEx envelope with a few gifts for the family. Although it was just a padded envelope, I discovered it would cost $75 to send! So I got a USPS “if it fits it ships anywhere” box and stuffed it with all kinds of useful and fun goodies for the family, book included. Cost: $43. After viewing the video, my friend Karen G. wrote a $50 check to cover shipping and start a “kittie” fund to help the family. (Phuong and her brother appear in the video.)
I received an e-mail from the EMW Da Nang office that the box arrived and the family was so excited. It read: “You can not imagine how happy Phuong and her mother were when receiving the gifts. Not only the material aspects, but the gifts have brought to them a deeper love for life, a belief that they are not alone in the battle against the poverty.”
Since the mother earns $38/month—less than the postage– the next gift will be a check. If you would like to make a donation, please let me know. —KL
June 2-6, 2009– Kigali, Rwimiyaga, Gacundezi, Nyagatare
assignment: write/produce a video for Food for the Hungry, an international relief organization
BRIEF BACKGROUND
Rwanda is called “the land of a thousand hills” …and 10 million smiles. A land-locked country in E. Africa the size of Maryland, today it is said to be the safest and cleanest country on the continent. The national language is Kinyarwanda. There are 576 Rwandan francs to $1 US. The largest franc is equivalent to a $20 bill.
Fifteen years since the genocide, the green countryside is peaceful now.
President Paul Kagame is considered an enlightened leader in Africa. He invited all who fled during a war (including the 1959 uprising) to return in peace to their homeland. More than a million were repatriated from neighboring Uganda, Burundi and the DR Congo. He declared after the genocide that there will be no more references to Hutus and Tutsis, everyone will be called “Rwandans.” Blaming the French for provoking genocide, he kicked them out and replaced French with English in schools as the second language. Most signs are in English.
Since their villages had been looted or destroyed, many returning refugees were settled in a huge wildlife preserve where they received a measured plot of land to begin anew—enough land for a house (hut) and to farm. They built from scratch with tree branches and mud bricks, but at least they were safely home.
Kagame received a military education in the US before securing victory. I’m told he’s a Christian who was inspired by Rick Warren’s book A Purpose Driven Life and decided to become a beacon of light for Africa after reading it.
He outlawed plastic (except water bottles) because it’s not biodegradable and causes litter. Upon retrieving our suitcases from baggage claim in Kigali, the capital, visitors who had wrapped their suitcases in plastic (for security) or carried plastic bags were stopped and asked to dispose of them in the trash before leaving the airport. Indeed, when driving north from Kigali through rural villages we did not see a spec of litter. Rwandans are required to devote one Saturday morning a month to community clean-up work.
June 2, 2009
Brussels Airways has the direct flight (8 hours) to Kigali. I was one of a handful of Caucasians on board.
Brenda, the wife of Food for the Hungry’s country director, picked me up at the airport and welcomed me into their Kigali home, large enough to serve as a B & B for all the staff and visitors passing through each year. She graciously had dinner ready and a guest bedroom and bathroom for me with hot and cold running water, a luxury that would not last long.
June 3
The camera crew and I set out in the morning with our suitcases in the van and the client’s Rwandan driver, Jean-Claude at the wheel, driving three hours north past remote villages where some had never seen a white person.
The sunny green countryside was pastoral and lovely. The land seemed to be sectioned off into equal parcels for huts and farming. This is a beautiful country of gentle hills and savannahs.
People were friendly, waving and smiling to our van or responding to our waves. We passed an endless stream of men, women (many swaddling babies on their backs) and school children walking up and down the hills along the dirt shoulders of the paved two-lane highway. There were few vehicles on the road, so people noticed us. Children especially waved enthusiastically.
I observed Claude exchanging hand signals with each driver in a vehicle passing in the opposite direction. He showed me the signals for “police check nearby, slow down” or “all clear, no police” or “police in next village.” We did pass a couple of soldiers and a few traffic cops on the roadside. One stopped us and asked a few questions in English then let us go after glancing at Claude’s papers. Claude said they mostly look for speeders.
In passing many rural villages, we witnessed how arduous life is for subsistence farmers in a primitive culture.
Here at the equator, work is back-breaking. They use only a rusty hoe (no tillers or machines) to plant and machetes to cut the corn stalks, banana clusters or tree branches for construction and kindling. We saw adults walking miles uphill in worn, torn flip-flops along the shoulders of the highway with bundles of goods balanced on their heads or loaded on bikes they were pushing and pedaling uphill, every inch a painful test of endurance.
Children of all ages walk to school by themselves for miles in the heat along the dirt sides of the road in worn out sandals. Some walk six miles each way. Your heart breaks passing so many friendly, decent people working to the bone to bear up in poverty.
I don’t know how a primitive life without infrastructure is possible to survive. The average lifespan is 49 years. Infant mortality is 85 per 1,000 yet I never saw so many children before; there are 6-8 per family.
After driving three hours, we pulled up to two small office buildings set back on a dirt road in the Rwimiyaga Sector of north east Rwanda. A group of about 15 men and women from Highland’s Church in Arizona were already meeting with the sector leader and pastors. They have established a long-term plan to build alongside the villagers a much-needed sustainable community.
We videotaped their meetings and I conducted a couple of interviews, then we followed the group in a three-van caravan to nearby Gacundezi, where we taped a small milk collection center.
Along the road, we passed some herders tending their cows, a sacred animal because of the milk (African cows have horns.). We spotted many zebra, gazelle, lots of cows, even a monkey. We followed the other vans as they turned down endless dirt roads deep into a resettlement area near a lake close to the Uganda border.
The residents approached us with curiosity; vans just don’t pull up in these parts, especially ones filled with Caucasians.
Many had never seen a white person before.
The children were especially shy when we waved and smiled to signal that we are friendly. The older ones waved back; the youngest turned and headed up the hill a bit frightened. Dwight, the country director, spoke in Kinyarwanda and with the help of Paul, a native on staff, they were able to determine the needs of the people living in this temporary resettlement for the past year. The area lacks a school and health clinic.
One pregnant woman with five children said she was ill and needed a doctor. The nearest clinic is more than eight miles away; the only vehicle is a bicycle.
We asked permission to take their photos. I mimed my request by holding up the camera and pointing. I couldn’t tell if they understood, but we took photos anyway and showed them the digital feedback in the cameras. They were so excited to see images of themselves! They began to pose with each other for more photos so they could see the result. We learned that smiling and waving first, then taking a digital photo and showing it in the camera was a great way to break the ice.
On the way back, we stopped at another village where they had never seen a white person. As our caravan pulled up, people emerged from their huts and the fields to greet us.
Having visitors is an honor in Rwanda.
Women with babies swaddled on their backs hung back under the trees, but large groups of men and children swamped our vans excitedly. I heard a child scream when I got out so I walked over to her in her mother’s arms. The child screamed louder and covered her eyes. Her mother smiled at me and turned away to calm the child. I followed, taking out a lollypop but that made things worse. It took a moment to realize that with red hair and white skin, I was a monster!
Dwight and Paul conversed with a group in Kinyarwanda while the rest of us smiled, waved then took digital photos.
Again, when we showed the result in our cameras, everyone gathered around to view it, then wanted more shots taken to see more. Soon we were engaged in a nonstop picture-taking-showing fest. Too bad Polaroid cameras were discontinued because permanent photos would have been a treasured gift here.
We climbed back into the vans and headed out while the entire village gathered to bid us goodbye, smiling and waving. All but one little girl still screaming.
We arrived at the Nyagatare District and town at dusk and checked into the Blue Sky Hotel. Curiously, it’s the only hotel in the entire sector (county) for miles around. We all had private rooms and bathrooms upstairs (no elevators or air conditioning in Rwanda). Mine did not have hot water.
Each room included a mosquito net over the bed and a TV set with remote control. The one working station was broadcasting a “Friends” episode.
Fortunately, the hotel staff was prepared for our large group of about 20 and served a full buffet dinner: fish, meat, rice, vegetables, potatoes, mashed bananas with bottled water, Fanta, coffee or tea. Fruit is the only dessert. Rwandan coffee is excellent.
Since I don’t do cold showers, I did what I could with bottled water before retiring. I should have appreciated what was provided because there was no running water in my room thereafter.
June 4, 2009
Following a hearty hotel breakfast of eggs, toast, potatoes, juice and coffee, we set out for a long day of videotaping in various locations, a few with the church group. Our first stop was the Gacundezi Primary School.
When we drove up, a sea of smiles and waving hands in blue school uniforms greeted us.
The head master mentioned that no one has visited this school before and these children have never seen a white person. We were greeted like rock stars. Some kids gently touched my hair and skin to see what I was made of. Rwandans have shaved heads, so my full hair and color must have seemed bizarre.
I rolled a suitcase out of the van into the headmaster’s office. Inside were school supplies I packed from my home office, 200 pens donated by TD Bank in Delray Beach and assorted stuff from home: frizbees, balls, glitter and glue, balloons, books. I gave half the contents to the headmaster and saved half for the school we were videotaping next. He was most grateful.
Taking digital photos with so many kids surrounding us was a major event; they could not get enough of seeing their images in our cameras. The headmaster tried to steer students back into their classrooms, but they followed our van to the gate, waving and calling “Goodbye” until we were out of view.
Rwimyaga Primary and Secondary School was the next stop. When we drove up, two classrooms were being conducted under the trees.
In each class were nearly 100 elementary school children in green uniforms sitting like sardines on benches learning to count in English by rote. Each teacher under the trees wrote on a blackboard with chalk but no erasure. When we came close to videotape, the children stood up in unison and welcomed us in Kinyarwanda. Unlike in the US, teachers are strict and students are respectful and well-mannered.
We met with the headmaster who explained there are more than 2,300 in his school and not enough supplies or classroom buildings for them all, so the trees serve as classrooms. I rolled my suitcase into his office and gave him the rest of the supplies. He said many students do not have pens, so with only 100 left from TD Bank, he decided to single out the best students to receive them.
He called a few to his office for a picture-taking moment of the pen distribution for my bank back home. I’ll try to get more pens, a valuable school supply here.
The day was hectic videotaping several more interviews and a school celebration held outside for the church group.
Students welcomed them with a ceremony that included singing and dancing then a dance join-in session. After the celebration, we followed a few church group members to their home visits with children they sponsor in the Gacundezi cell (village area).
Here sits a typical primitive village where families of 10 live in small, two-room huts. One woman who was here during the genocide agreed to be interviewed in her hut. Her eight children came inside and sat quietly (just like American kids).
With Paul interpreting, she spoke about being beaten then, and how happy she is now to live in peace in her hut and have Food for the Hungry provide the school uniforms and supplies for her children’s schooling. “My life is good now,” she said.
We thanked her then I asked permission to take a photo with the children around her. She shrugged not knowing what I meant. Paul said it was OK, so I snapped a picture and showed her the image in the camera. She was overcome with emotion when she saw her family portrait.
Back at the Blue Sky Hotel, there was no running water in my room but the buffet dinner was delicious. I learned to appreciate bottled water, especially during the day. To everyone else, the weather at the equator was hot, but coming from Florida it was just fine since there is little humidity.
June 5
Along the drive back to Kigali, I asked to make stops so the crew could videotape typical scenes of daily life here. We experienced several touching encounters with villagers when we pulled over. First we smiled and waved then mimed permission to take a photo. Showing the image in the camera helped get the approval to videotape.
We stopped to tape a group of women, some with babies on their backs, pumping water from a central field pump. I could see their reluctantance to allow the cameraman to videotape so I got out of the van and approached them. One woman gently pulled at my white shirt and said something. I looked at Claude, “What does she want, the shirt off my back?” “No, she wants clothes,” he said. “She wants to know if you have any clothes you can give her.”
I held up my index finger meaning “wait one minute” and dashed up to the van, opened the trunk, unzipped my suitcase and yanked out what was on top. It was a long, cotton nightshirt in lime green (not a common color here) with several pink flamingos in sunglasses across the middle and the words “Delray Beach” underneath. The nightshirt had two white bleach stains on the bottom.
I hurried back to the water pump and held up the garment for her approval. She smiled, took it from me and examined it, then put it on over her African ethnic dress. It fit her perfectly. She smiled again and gave me a thumb’s up!
Greg took a picture of us with the rest of the women by our side. When we parted, they smiled and waved. Carrying water jugs, the women disappeared down a dirt road that cut into the field to their huts. Despite the heat of the day, she did not take off the nightshirt. In an unknown village in Rwanda somewhere between Kigali and Nyagatare, the City of Delray Beach has a presence (photo coming). The same with Boca Raton, but that’s another story about a cap.
It was nearly 3:00pm when we pulled up at Brenda and Dwight’s Kigali home dirty, hot and hungry. Brenda had lunch and our rooms, complete with hot water, waiting for us. I did everyone a favor by taking a long, hot shower that felt wonderful. She and helpers were preparing her famous buffet dinner this evening for all 20 of us.
Dwight calls it the “Mt. Kilimanjaro” dinner. On a big plate, you build a mountain starting with rice, then curried chicken in sauce over that, then some kind of beans, chopped tomatoes, chopped onion, chopped mango, chopped nuts, some other chopped items I can’t remember, raisins and topped with shredded coconut. It was fantastic!
June 6
I awoke to Brenda’s scrambled eggs, the best bagels I’ve ever tasted (from a bakery in Kigali) and delicious Rwandan coffee (wish it were available online). Chatting for awhile with Brenda and Nathan, I learned about his complex project building a pipeline delivering sanitary water to remote villages and all the construction and people challenges he confronts daily, including the recipients. There’s a book in this.
Betsy helped load my suitcases into her car and drove me to the Kigali marketplace where I bought some beautiful hand-made baskets before heading to the airport.
It was difficult to bid farewell to the wonderful, dedicated staff with Food for the Hungry.
This remarkable, moving journey in Rwanda is one the crew and I will never forget. I smiled, waved and bid everyone farewell. The Kenya Airlines flight to Dubai included a long stopover in Nairobi. From primitive to futuristic, another culture shock was waiting in the Middle East. –KL
March, 2009– Before leaving for Haiti to produce a video for Friends of the Orphans, I viewed some of the client’s raw footage taken in Cite Soleil, the largest slum in Port au Prince and branded as the worst one in the world. In the video were many kids without clothes living in appalling squalor among sewage, rubble, mud, polluted water and garbage picked over by wild pigs. I decided the children could at least use T-shirts as simple protection against the harsh conditions, an article of clothing Americans have in abundance.
A month earlier Ivan had donated bags of clothes to Caring Kitchen, which services the Haitian community in Delray Beach. I had given bags to Goodwill. So I sent an e-mail to a few friends about collecting used, clean T-shirts in any size to bring with me and distribute to children in Haiti’s notorious slum. Within five days I received 205 T-shirts and 61 other clothing items that filled four hefty suitcases.
In Ft. Lauderdale, Lisa packed a huge duffle bag suitcase.
Kathy and Gabby gave enough bags to fill a suitcase of their own.
Paul in Lake Worth donated a haul to fill another big one.
The Henny Penny women in West Palm Beach brought 33 clothing items and Gene in Boca Raton donated 25 golf shirts only worn once
In Deray Beach, Gloria, Charles, David, Annabeth and Marjorie donated the rest.
TD bank in Delray and Boca donated 300 pens for the orphanage school.
I was overwhelmed by the response in such short notice.
The four full-sized suitcases were checked from Miami to Port au Prince on March 25 along with Darryl’s camera equipment. Fabi, our Haitian production assistant (coincidentally) and I had carry on cases, so we met the quota for checked luggage.
To accommodate all our bags, the client arranged for their driver and bus to pick us up at the airport. We were driven to the client’s St. Damien Pediatric Hospital in Tabarre, an area in Port au Prince. There we videotaped the wonderful facility treating the sweetest and sickest youngsters.
I interviewed Father Rick, the priest and doctor who established the facility along with schools in Cite Soleil and an impressive orphanage for 500 kids in the misty mountains of Kenscoff.
It was still light when we finished videotaping at the hospital so Fr. Rick agreed to take us with suitcases to one of the schools he founded in Cite Soleil where I could distribute the T-shirts and take photos for the donors in Florida. St. Anne’s school is located on the perimeter of the slum, not deep inside where the video of naked children was shot. As deplorable as conditions are along the perimeter, these kids were wearing clothes. Conditions are worse and more dangerous deeper into the shantytown and Fr. Rick did not want us to go there. He does outreach work in the inner slum twice weekly, but felt it was not the right time for us to go.
When the children saw five of us plus three suitcase carriers walking through their narrow, rocky “street” toward the school, they followed with great curiosity. Visitors, especially three Caucasians, are somewhat rare here. The kids were adorable, respectful and friendly. Fr. Rick warned that there would be a stampede if we opened the suitcases in the street, so staff carried them into the small school yard area then closed the large metal door to block the view and entrance. He had the children line up, letting a certain number inside while the next group were lined up.
Before opening the suitcases, he made a short speech in Creole and all the kids sang a song. I decided to say a few words, too. With Fabi translating, I told the children, “I brought these gifts from people in Florida who care about you very much and want you to know that they love you.”
Then I unzipped one suitcase. Their eyes grew wide when they saw the treasure of clothes.
Me and two staff members began handing out one T-shirt at a time. All the hands went up. Some kids got extra excited for certain colors, styles or items. We tried to give to each the item wanted the most.
Soon the kids were rushing the suitcase rummaging through the clothes. We closed the case, Fabi told them in Creole to back up to where they were sitting and the cycle began again, then all over again with the next group of kids.
When I got to the stack of Gene’s golf shirts, I held up a few and looked at Fr. Rick. They were his size and he was wearing a golf shirt. He said, “No, thanks, I have everything I need.” Later Jennifer told me she’s sure he only has the one he was wearing. Eventually we distributed the donations in three suitcases (the fourth one saved for the orphanage).
During the commotion, Fabi had me hand over a stack of T-shirts from Delray Beach’s recent commission election. She disappeared with them into one of the school rooms then emerged asking me to quickly take a picture inside. A dozen adult students in class had put on the election T-shirts. The effect was much like a club shirt or school uniform.
We headed back to the bus, children surrounding us smiling for the camera and making hand gestures, holding our hands or just gathering in curiosity. Although they appreciated the clothes, I still wanted to get more for the naked kids I saw on videotape in the inner slum. Fr. Rick said he’d see that any items I send get distributed there.
Thank you all for your much needed and appreciated donations! The Haiti T-shirt drive did not end with you.
Northwood University T-Shirt Drive
Gayle from Henny Penny’s was in a meeting with Northwood University Professor Janice Scarinci in West Palm Beach and mentioned she had to leave and drop off T-shirts for Haiti. Dr. Scarinci wanted to know about this spontaneous T-shirt drive because she has a special empathy for Haiti’s children. She invited me to do a media presentation for her class, showing my photos and video of the T-shirt drive and the video I wrote/produced for Friends of the Orphans, Haiti.
After the media presentation, Dr. Scarinci asked the class if they would like to duplicate my T-shirt drive, involving the entire college. The class was excited about the idea and the planning stage began right there in class. The drive was spearheaded by Anna, one of the students who said she was inspired by the presentation, the great need and the donation response I received from one e-mail to friends.
With only two weeks left before graduation, the hotel and hospitality class of about12 seniors had to obtain college permission, design and distribute flyers and set logistics for the collection, counting and delivery of the clothes on campus. The goal of their year-end “Give the T-Shirt Off Your Back” drive was to collect 1,000 T-shirts for naked children living in Cite Soleil. By May 11, they had collected 1,330.
Dr. Scarinci asked me to do another presentation on collection day for the general student body and staff. This time I brought Alfredo, a representative from Friends of the Orphans who manages the Miami-Haiti in-kind donations warehouse.
Alfredo was an orphan who grew up in one of the homes supported by Friends of the Orphans. The students had lots of questions and were touched by his story.
On May 16, students bagged and trucked 1,330 T-shirts down to the Miami warehouse. Alfredo will put them in a shipping container to Haiti where they will be received by the orphanage staff there and distributed by them to children in the poorest slum in the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere.
Dr. Scarinci and Anna said they hope this T-shirt drive will become an annual event at the college. They will remain in touch with Alfredo “to keep it going.” I hope some day soon all children in Cite Soleil, Haiti will have at least one article of clothing to protect them. —
Karen
MORE PHOTOS: of Haiti and the T-shirt drives at Haiti
I just saw a photo of the collapsed building in Petionville (a section of Port au Prince) where the camera crew and I stayed 10 months ago producing the video. Friends of the Orphans owned the building, which included a day care center for handicapped children and a “hotel” for visitors like us.
This photo was taken of us in front of their building March, 2009. Now it’s gone. There but for the grace of God go I.
I saw on MSNBC that one of the schools in Cite Soleil established by Friends of the Orphans was destroyed along with the children in it.
It was the very school where we distributed the T-shirts many of you had donated.
I cannot comprehend that this school and the precious children are gone now! Located in the mountains, the orphanage received some structural damage but not extensive. However, some employees who were working at sites in Port au Prince the day of the quake perished.
Fr. Rick Frichette in the mini-documentary is the Haiti director for Friends of the Orphans. Also a doctor, he established the only pediatric hospital in Haiti. We taped his interview at his beautiful St. Damien Hospital in Tabarre. Although this hospital suffered damage, it is still standing and has become a center where the wounded are brought for treatment. News segments about him and the hospital since the quake at VIDEO: ABC News at St. Damien Hospitalhttp://abcnews.go.com/Video/playerIndex?id=9570839) and VIDEO: NBC Nightly News at St. Damien Hospital Message from Fr. Rick on January 14, 2010, 12:45 p.m. (EST):
Our 120-bed pediatric hospital has moved all of the patients outside into the driveway and courtyard areas due to the government’s statement that no one should be inside buildings because of the numerous aftershocks. We are working on obtaining tents from the United Nations to try and make the children and parents more comfortable. Most of the perimeter walls have collapsed and there is some structural damage to the main hospital walls. A source explained, ‘It is not easy for the children to be outside and obviously some are not able to receive the intensive care that they need. I was there for only a few hours on Tuesday and many injured people were brought in with horrific injuries. Everybody is terrified. As of this morning, people with very serious conditions are still streaming in. Nurses are working hard and doing their best to cope.’
Fabi, our Hatian production assistant, translated for us on the shoot. She worked part-time while in college then moved back to Haiti last month. I met her lovely parents while there. Her sister in Florida called the office to report that Fabi and her parents are OK but they could not locate all their relatives and learned that some died. No word if they are homeless.
Most of the houses in the hills of Petionville where they lived have collapsed. (Petionville, 3/09)
HOW YOU CAN HELP: AT www.friendsoftheorphans.org They suggest donating essential life -saving relief supplies: medicine, dry beans and rice, flashlights, batteries, water purifiers, and bottled water. In South Florida, take your donations to their office: 7175 SW 47th Street, Unit 207, Miami, Florida 33155; phone: 305/663-6211. They have their own shipping containers that go to their Haiti orphanage and hospital. – KL
refugees were settled in a huge wildlife preserve where they received a measured plot of land to begin anew—enough land for a house (hut) and to farm. They built from scratch with tree branches and mud bricks, but at least they were safely home. 
Brenda, the wife of Food for the Hungry’s country director, picked me up at the airport and welcomed me into their Kigali home, large enough to serve as a B & B for all the staff and visitors passing through each year. She graciously had dinner ready and a guest bedroom and bathroom for me with hot and cold running water, a luxury that would not last long.
The land seemed to be sectioned off into equal parcels for huts and farming. This is a beautiful country of gentle hills and savannahs. 
Along the road, we passed some herders tending their cows, a sacred animal because of the milk (African cows have horns.). We spotted many zebra, gazelle, lots of cows, even a monkey. We followed the other vans as they turned down endless dirt roads deep into a resettlement area near a lake close to the Uganda border.
The nearest clinic is more than eight miles away; the only vehicle is a bicycle. 
Women with babies swaddled on their backs hung back under the trees, but large groups of men and children swamped our vans excitedly. I heard a child scream when I got out so I walked over to her in her mother’s arms. The child screamed louder and covered her eyes. Her mother smiled at me and turned away to calm the child. I followed, taking out a lollypop but that made things worse. It took a moment to realize that with red hair and white skin, I was a monster! 
Again, when we showed the result in our cameras, everyone gathered around to view it, then wanted more shots taken to see more. Soon we were engaged in a nonstop picture-taking-showing fest. Too bad Polaroid cameras were discontinued because permanent photos would have been a treasured gift here. 
Each room included a mosquito net over the bed and a TV set with remote control. The one working station was broadcasting a “Friends” episode. 
In each class were nearly 100 elementary school children in green uniforms sitting like sardines on benches learning to count in English by rote. Each teacher under the trees wrote on a blackboard with chalk but no erasure. When we came close to videotape, the children stood up in unison and welcomed us in Kinyarwanda. Unlike in the US, teachers are strict and students are respectful and well-mannered. 
He called a few to his office for a picture-taking moment of the pen distribution for my bank back home. I’ll try to get more pens, a valuable school supply here.
Students welcomed them with a ceremony that included singing and dancing then a dance join-in session. After the celebration, we followed a few church group members to their home visits with children they sponsor in the Gacundezi cell (village area). 
Here sits a typical primitive village where families of 10 live in small, two-room huts. One woman who was here during the genocide agreed to be interviewed in her hut. Her eight children came inside and sat quietly (just like American kids).
Kathy and Gabby gave enough bags to fill a suitcase of their own.
In Deray Beach, Gloria, Charles, David, Annabeth and Marjorie donated the rest.
Then I unzipped one suitcase. Their eyes grew wide when they saw the treasure of clothes. 
Soon the kids were rushing the suitcase rummaging through the clothes. We closed the case, Fabi told them in Creole to back up to where they were sitting and the cycle began again, then all over again with the next group of kids. 
With only two weeks left before graduation, the hotel and hospitality class of about12 seniors had to obtain college permission, design and distribute flyers and set logistics for the collection, counting and delivery of the clothes on campus. The goal of their year-end “Give the T-Shirt Off Your Back” drive was to collect 1,000 T-shirts for naked children living in Cite Soleil. By May 11, they had collected 1,330. 
Alfredo was an orphan who grew up in one of the homes supported by Friends of the Orphans. The students had lots of questions and were touched by his story. 
Dr. Scarinci and Anna said they hope this T-shirt drive will become an annual event at the college. They will remain in touch with Alfredo “to keep it going.” I hope some day soon all children in Cite Soleil, Haiti will have at least one article of clothing to protect them. —
On Assignment 
