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January 30, 2008

Kinshasa is one of the most visually overwhelming cities I have ever visited in my life. It’s the capital of the Democratic Republic of the Congo situated in Central Africa. It is also home to more than seven million people and hosts one of the biggest slums in the world. The place is an absolute soul-destroying quagmire.

While visiting the city last year I had the privilege of meeting a wonderful man named Mr. Wemba. Mr. Wemba lives in a shack near a clinic I was visiting.

At one point during my visit I was so overwhelmed with the stories of how most of the women in the clinic, including the nurses, had been raped or abused that I took a break outside the building and chatted to the driver of our United Nations vehicle. Then I sketched in my journal trying to capture some of the surroundings.

I looked around at the crumbling, broken down buildings and the forlorn corrugated tin shacks and saw discarded plastic bags and scraps of paper dancing a somber ballet in and around the structures.

The stench matched the nauseating sight of old tires, rusted tin cans, cardboard boxes, abandoned vehicles and other junk that lay piled up against many of the dwellings, which were in fact, people’s homes. There was dirt and filth piled everywhere.

As I looked around trying to make sense of what I was seeing, a patch of yellow caught my eye. The color was totally out of place.

“What’s that?” I said to the driver, pointing toward the yellow structure.

“What?” he said.

“That yellow thing down there, with the purple and green?”

“I don’t know?”

We got up and walked toward the splash of color.

“I think it’s somebody’s house,” said the driver as we got a little closer.

We stepped around a rusted out VW bus and there, in front of our eyes, was an amazing sight. Nestled between the broken-down, mangled and filthy tin shanties was a yellow corrugated dwelling with purple and green accents. It was a sight to behold. This little house was made out of tin and wood, like the others surrounding it, but it was immaculate.

The immediate area around the house was clean-swept and beautiful. It was like a perfect rose growing in amongst coils of rusted barbed wire. The front and sides of the house were embraced by a magnificent flowerbed filled with colorful blooming plants. Also on the sides were dozens of old paint cans filled with flowers. Under the window, which was actually a plastic-covered hole in the wall, was an old commode, filled with soil and beautiful hibiscus tree.

Words do not really do the scene justice and because the UN advisor warned me not to take any pictures, I have no photographic record of that truly amazing sight. (Although I do have a powerful picture in my mind, which, I don’t think, I’ll ever forget.)

It’s amazing how some people are inspired to use anything and everything in their power not to become part of the fabric of their surroundings and situations.

As we were standing there a man stepped out of the house and introduced himself as Mr. Wemba.

“I am sorry to be standing here and staring,” I said, “but your home is truly beautiful.”

“Thank you,” he said, pointing to the unkempt houses around him. “The others around here are not to happy with me. They say I am making them look bad. Well what can I say?”

I raised my eyebrows. He chuckled heartily.

“American?” he said to me.

“Born in South Africa, now living in America,” I replied.

“Your grandfather is a good man,” he said.

“How do you know my grandfather?” I said.

“Nelson Mandela,” he said. “He is the grandfather of all South Africans.”

I chuckled. “Madiba. (As Nelson Mandela is known in South Africa.) Yes indeed,” I said. “He’s a wonderful human being. An amazing guy actually.”

“What brings you to Kinshasa?” said Mr. Wemba. “I’m sure you are not here on holiday.”

“I’m visiting with the UN.” I said. “I’m with a delegation trying to help children affected by the war.”

“I believe that would mean every child in the whole country,” said Mr. Wemba.

“I know,” I said. “It’s heartbreaking.”

We chatted a little more about the Congo, life in Kinshasa and how much work is needed to give the children hope for the future. Mr. Wemba waved goodbye and went back into his lovely home.

As we walked away from the house, the metaphor of ‘children in war’ being like ‘Mr. Wemba’s flowers growing in amongst the gloomy broken-down shacks’, did not escape me.

For the sake of the children in the slums, orphanages and refugee camps in Africa may there be an abundance of Mr. Wemba’s helping kids grow and blossom despite the situations that war, poverty and famine have put them in.

Posted by trevor at 05:32 PM | Comments (0)

January 23, 2008

When I was in Burundi (bordering Rwanda in Central Africa) some months ago I had an amazing visit with some orphaned ex-child soldiers at a re-integration camp.

I was talking to the boys (aged between 12 to 16) about hope. One of the boys told me that there was no hope for them.

I said, “What do you mean, there is no hope?”

He said, “There are no jobs for us. There is no food. There is nothing. Our parents are dead. War is at least a job for us.”

I looked at the boy and pointed to the dirt around the crates we were sitting on. (Everything was stripped bare in the compound. There wasn’t a blade of grass in sight.)

“Do you think anything can grow in this dirt?” I said, letting the soil trickle through my fingers.

“No,” said the boy.

“But, if you dig a little hole right here and plant a seed in the hole, will it grow?”

“No.” said the boy, bluntly. “Nothing can grow in this dust.”

“How about if you water the seed and take care of it every day?”

“It will grow,” said the boy, smiling sheepishly.

“You know, back in America, I spend a lot of time with children who are very sick,” I said. “They have a disease called cancer. Many of those kids get better, but some of them just cannot be cured, no matter how hard the doctors try. For them there is no hope. For you, even after all the pain and terrible suffering you have experienced, I believe there are seeds of hope deep inside every one of you."

The boys nodded and exchanged a few words to each other that I couldn't understand.

"Guys, don’t give up on your seeds. Love them, tend to them, look after them, treasure them and I bet you they will grow.”

Another murmur went up. Nods and more nods ensued. One of the boys leaned over and patted me on the knee.

We sat in comfortable quietness for a few minutes.

“So,” I said, bringing us back into the present. “If you guys had a little money right now. What would you buy?”

“Ice cream!” yelled one of the younger boys excitedly. (As one would imagine ice cream is pretty scarce in Bujumbura, let alone food.)

The whole group laughed.

We spent most of the afternoon taking and sharing incredible stories. It was hard to leave those guys. They are such good kids stuck in such a tough place.

As our convoy of white UN vehicles was about to leave the orphanage, one of the boys who had been in my group, rushed up to the car window and thrust his hand inside.

He was holding a soiled little pouch, which he dropped into my palm. He looked at me and said something in Swahili.

"What did he say?"

“He said to please buy Ice-cream for the kids with that cancer,” said the translator, sitting alongside me.

As we pulled away, I leaned out of the window and waved.

“Thanks,” I yelled as a cloud of dust enveloped the boy and all the others who had gathered at the gate to say goodbye.

I pulled the drawstring on the pouch and turned it over. A heavy, well-worn, antique Queen Victoria British coin, tumbled out of the pouch into my hand.

I turned and looked over my shoulder. The boy was still waving. I kept looking back until the boy became a speck on the horizon.

I wonder what flavor of ice cream I should buy for the kids at the hospital?

Posted by trevor at 04:30 PM | Comments (0)

January 21, 2008

(All Images © Jed Share 2005)

My friend Carl Thiel and I have just finished working on Drawing Closer, a fictional short movie based on some of my experiences with kids suffering from childhood cancer. (Watch this space for more information regarding the film and the festivals where the movie will be shown)

Acting in the movie reminded me of a visit I had a with a group of delightful kids who are suffering from childhood cancer. (See above) It was one of the most memorable weekends I have ever experienced.

The strength, faith, hope and love flowing from the families of these children is unbelievable. I honestly don’t know if I could ever handle what these families are going through myself. Their steadfast hope and resolve is unbelievable.

I was with these families to take photographs for a book and a television piece we (the Candlelighters Childhood Cancer Foundation) are doing to gather national and international support for children in treatment, survivors and the families of those who have passed away from cancer.

During the weekend I spent most of my time on the floor of the National Children’s Hospital doing my job as the Doctor of Mischief. My task was to make the kids feel at ease so we could capture their personalities on film. I wrestled on the floor with little kids with cue ball heads. I joked and shared incredible stories with an amazing teenager from Bulgaria. I made an idiot of myself trying to distract kids from the camera and that awful cancer shadow that stalks them twenty-four hours a day.

My friend Jed Share (a world class photographer) Ruth Hoffman (Executive Director of the Candlelighters) and myself (world class buffoon) cried and laughed the whole weekend. I cannot tell you how full my heart feels after celebrating life with these kids and capturing their courage and hope on film.

We spent three days taking hundreds and hundreds of pictures and then on the Saturday night we all joined together in the old Post Office in Washington D.C. to light the incredible Candlelighters Christmas Tree. The tree was adorned with thousands of gold ribbons to support kids in treatment, honor those who are no longer with us and celebrate the precious lives of those who have survived childhood cancer.

After the tree lighting I had a real hard time saying goodbye to my new friends, especially to a little four year-old chap named Alex. We really bonded and I had a huge lump in my throat when I saw Alex’s bald little head hang in sadness when he said goodbye to me.

“Can you be my friend for always?” he said when I hugged him goodbye.

“Yes, Alex,” I whispered in his ear. “For always.”

From kids with cancer at the National Children's Hospital to the kids in the refugee camps in Darfur. From kids dealing with post traumatic stress from wars in Africa, the Middle East and Pakistan to the kids in your neighborhood. Let's send warm thoughts across the planet to any child whose is suffering today.

Posted by trevor at 04:43 PM | Comments (0)

January 08, 2008

Some time ago, while spring-cleaning a closet in my studio, I found a package containing a new, un-opened set of lovely Windsor & Newton watercolor paint, a very expensive pair of Sable hair brushes, a set of Dr. Martin’s inks, a set of Rotring pens and a nice thick block of Arches Hot Pressed paper.

What a great surprise! Just to think that some of the materials I’ve been coveting in the latest Jerry’s Artarama catalogue were actually hidden under my very nose in my studio.

Then I found a note tucked-in with the supplies and my blood went cold.

The note was to my father. The art materials I found were actually a gift for my dad who could not get good art supplies in South Africa.

My father was a wonderful artist and never asked for much, but I knew he wanted this package so badly. My mom told me that he would often say, "I wonder if Trev's package is going to come in the mail today." He mentioned a number of times, on the phone to me, how forward he was looking to getting the paints because he had a specific project in mind that he wanted to create.

For some reason I never got round to mailing the the supplies to him. They sat hidden in my studio closet for years.

Then my father died.

He never got the package he waited so patiently for.

Dad, I am so sorry.

"Now is the time to give me roses, not to keep them for my grave to
come. Give them to me while my heart beats, give them today while my
heart yearns for jubilee. Now is the time..."

Mzwakhe Mbuli

Posted by trevor at 06:48 AM | Comments (0)

January 03, 2008

In two thousand oh eight...

Posted by trevor at 03:24 PM | Comments (0)

January 01, 2008

Posted by trevor at 08:15 AM | Comments (0)