Wherefore Art Thou Compassion

There is a reason you will find no pictures on this post. I am sure you will understand by the end.

Believe it or not, I have a simple Sunday routine. I wake to the sound of early church singers. I rise, clean off, have quiet time, and water.

Then, I am off. I walk to a St. Katumba church here on the Kyambogo University campus. I don't go inside. I sit out. I listen. For some reason, I don't want to take my mzungu body inside their place of worship. When the last hymn is being sung, I rise from the steps on which I have been seated.

I start the walk to Logo, a shopping mall, where I will eat lunch at a restaurant. I have been told, "You people like Logo" and indeed I see more mzungus there then any other single place. To get there I walk about 3.5 miles along the road that moves traffic from Kampala city center to Jinja (the town near the source of the Nile). The road is not as congested on Sundays as it is most other days. Walking on the road is not easy. There is a small area between the ditch built to channel water during the rain and markets on the one side AND streams of cars, beeping taxi-buses, and swerving boda-bodas on the other side. Still I like the walk and I turn down many requests for taxis and boda-bodas in order to get in a walk.  I walk to Logo, eat lunch, and walk home. Then, I spend the afternoon preparing for the upcoming week's work, and doing a bit of writing.

I have the path marked out pretty well in my mind. Once I get to the main road, I pass a gas station, soon thereafter, a big car lot and mattress factory. These are owned by Indian Ugandans. Further along, I pass some nice nurseries where small plants are nurtured by the side of the road. There is a big corner where many taxis gather. Then, there is a big open market area at Nakawa, This kind of market area is frequented less by Wuzungus (plural of mzungu) than Logo, but I like its open air, haphazard, colorful presence. People often call at me to buy and I try not to breathe the smell of fresh fish - a smell I am sure many people would appreciate. Passed this market, there are few specified service organization buildings. Then another small nursery and the corner across from Logo, where women sit selling baskets of bananas and mangos, peas and ground nuts. There is security at the entrance to the parking lot of the mall, but I am usually just waved on through. 

This morning before heading out, Onzima, the man who takes care of the property I am staying at, approached me to discuss his particular dilemmas. I listened. Today, while I was eating a lunch outside, a well-dressed man approached me with a letter claiming that he was deaf and that he needed money. As I was reading, I was thinking "Hmmm, I am not quite sure how to handle the situation. What is the right amount? What should I do?" I decided to give him half of what I would have spent on lunch and then I cut back on what I ordered. He seemed grateful, but also perhaps a bit embarrassed. He scurried off quickly. I ate. Then I began the journey back. Lots of people waved at me. Boda-boda called, "Mzungu, how are you? Where are you going?" "I am just walking, I would reply." "But where? What is your name?" "I am walking home and I like the exercise." "Oh, oh, okay." And then again. And yet again. Children wave. Today one young girl (I would guess around 2.5) ran up to me and hugged me as her mother smiled at a short distance. I was aware, as I usually am, at the beautiful colors of the women's attire. I am touched by the movements of the children.

After passing Nakawa on my way home, and in the vicinity of one of the larger nurseries, I looked ahead. I saw a woman. She was not clean. Her simple clothes were tattered. She walked without anything on her feet. She wore the signs of a hard life. As she got closer, I averted my eyes - down, to the left. We passed on each others' right. She was between me and the clamoring road. Just after passing, I felt her warm sure grip on my arm. She had reached out to grab me. I made a sound of fear. Indeed, without choosing, I felt afraid. I did not look up. I kept walking, taking my arm along with me. After some few steps, I looked back. She stood silent in the place where I had pulled my arm from her hand. I kept walking. a few more steps, I looked back again, and saw her back as she seemed to be proceeding along in the direction she had been going.

I felt ashamed. I pondered the words of Jesus: 'Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me.' Matthew 25:40

So what did I do? I averted my eyes. I turned my head. I walked passed. I kept walking. I looked back, but did not change from my path. I was motivated by fear.

I am left wondering, wherefore art my compassion?