April 09, 2008
Last year I had the privilege of sharing time with a group of orphans in Bujumbura, the capital of Burundi, in Central Africa. I was working with the kids to help them express their fears and feelings by drawing pictures of their pain and then having them follow up with drawings of their hopes and wishes.
We were in a makeshift classroom with dirt-covered floors and no glass in the windows. The room was dark, close and depressing in the equatorial heat. At first the children gazed blankly at me, constantly swatting the flies away from their hollow eyes and expressionless faces.
These kids have been through hell. Many of the orphans, both boys and girls, have been raped, abused, prostituted and abandoned.
As we were about to start I noticed a young boy dressed in a traditional Burundian drumming outfit watching me through one of the windows.
I invited him to join us but he just stood there, leaning on a walking stick, watching. I could see the sadness in his eyes and it tugged at me. I invited him in again. But he didn't budge. He just stood outside the window and stared.
I respected his decision and started the session.
To begin the class, I took a blank piece of paper and did a drawing depicting the pain I felt when my father passed away. It was a dark picture with lots of clouds swirling in a squiggle of angry lines. As I drew I pressed hard on the paper telling the kids in the class how the heavy, rough lines represented the anger of losing my father. Among the swirls I drew a person curled up in a ball and told them it was me, in the picture, experiencing the pain of my father's death.
As hard as I tried I could not stop myself from getting misty eyed when I held up the picture for the kids to see.
Exposing my own pain stirred something within these kids. I realized this when one little girl wiped away her own tears as I shared my grief. It was incredible. I could feel invisible hugs reaching out from every one of those children in the room. Children who have experienced more horror and hardships than I'll ever know.
The kids looked around at each other and began nodding and discussing my picture as they whispered amongst themselves.
Then I put the painful picture aside and drew a picture of my hopes and dreams for the future. I drew a happy picture with a boy standing on top of a hill with his arms reaching up to a star. (I used as many warm colors as I could.)
The kids connected with the picture and began to chatter excitedly.
I will never forget the smiles on the kid's faces as they discussed my picture and suggested more things for me to include on the page like flowers, the sun and even kids eating ice cream.
Then I invited the kids to repeat what I had done. Draw a picture of their own pain, look at the drawing, acknowledge the emotions evoked by the picture, and then draw their future hopes and dreams.
I have no words to describe what happened next.
The entire mood in the room shifted.
I could feel the children's emotions change and grow as they drew. It's amazing how cathartic simple lines on a piece of paper can be. How extracting pain and suffering from your heart and putting it on paper can make the pain and hurt easier to process and clearer to see.
As they drew I saw the children grow and bloom. It was like a time-lapse film of a flower opening. And just like a blossoming bud, the children seemed to unfold from a tight curled-up balls, void of color or vibrancy, and grow into a magnificent flowers.
When we were done drawing, the kids danced around me and proudly showed off their pictures.
The group-hug we shared will never be forgotten.
I chatted to the social worker after the kids left the room. I packed my bag and I was about to leave when a movement at the door caught my eye.
It was the young boy in a traditional Burundian drumming outfit who watched me through the window at the beginning of the session. He was now standing in the doorway.
In his hand he held a blank piece of drawing paper.
In his eyes he held a familiar vacant stare.
He lifted the paper slowly toward me.
“Okay buddy,” I said, patting him on the back. “Have a seat. Let's see if we can draw us a little hope and happiness shall we?”
And we did.
Posted by trevor at April 9, 2008 05:14 PM
Comments
Hi Trevor, you're newest greatest fan here -writing from Camden, Maine - remember me?
The other day, a few weeks ago, I found your blog. I spent several hours reading through many of your entries over the past 2 or 3 years. I recently lost my mother to cancer and found your words and drawings to have struck a chord. I laughed and cried many tears as I read your stories.
Thank you so much for the work you do and the person you are and know that if you are touching my heart in this little corner of Maine, you are touching hearts all over the world with your kindness, wisdom, and joy of life.
Keep up the great work!
Best regards, Ken
Posted by: Ken Foster at April 10, 2008 06:11 AM
this post is very moving and emotional. Thank you.
i came over via fivestarfriday.com, i'm glad i did.
Posted by: iamthediva at April 25, 2008 01:09 PM
Another visitor from fivestarfriday.com. Absolutely brilliant post.
Posted by: Working From Home Today at April 25, 2008 03:44 PM
wow. this brings tears to my eyes - you wrote it so beautifully.
(from fivestarfriday.com too)
Posted by: Crystal at April 25, 2008 04:45 PM