In my trip to Ghana back in March, my eyes were opened to a few things. I learned about forced labor and human trafficking from meeting children who were in forced labor, some of them for years, before being rescued. I looked them in they eye, hugged them, spoke with them, and cried as they sang, “I will not go back to the lake; I will not go back to the traffic.”
It is one thing to read about human trafficking, but it is another thing to meet humans who have been trafficked. To be baptized into a different culture, a place where on the one hand trafficking is illegal, but on the other hand it is widely practiced, shook me (also rattles me to know that this descriptions fits both Ghana and the US). I could not see what I saw and remain oblivious.
And there is that word, oblivious. One of my University of Minnesota professors, Paul Rosenblatt, first introduced me to a new twist on obliviousness. I had always considered that individuals were oblivious to this or that, which certainly remains true. But Dr. Rosenblatt saw more complexity and nuance to obliviousness. He saw it as a shared experience. Individuals interact with one another in relationships and social systems in ways that maintain each other’s obliviousness. It is as though people within a social system collude to keep that which is unknown, forever unknown – even if it is perfectly well known.
OK, so when I reflected on what I witnessed in Ghana, I asked myself this question, “What are the forces at work in my regular life that keep me from knowing about the oppression, abuse, and evil in this world?” It is one thing to be oblivious, but it is another thing to try to understand what processes are at work to maintain the obliviousness.
What captures my attention?
How are things issued a level of importance?
Who must I satisfy and with how much effort?
The more I dig into the questions the more unsettling my comfortable culture becomes, the more duped I feel by the “normal” I have come to depend on, and the more the mundane seems sinister and quietly dangerous.
It hit me swiftly between the eyes when Gail and I were at Kroger on Saturday buying Easter candy.
“How can we know the chocolate we buy was not harvested with child slaves?” Gail asked. Ouch. The cocoa industry, most of which originated in Ghana and Ivory Coast, is rife with forced labor of children. I didn’t know how to tell which chocolate was slave chocolate. Maybe all of it was.
In that moment I felt more distance between me and M&M’s than I have ever felt in my life – and Snickers and Kit Kat and Whoppers and Milk Duds and and and, cripes, I eat way too much chocolate. But more so, I have never even given a single thought to where my chocolate comes from. Who sweats for my chocolate binges? What corruption and oppression is required in order to satisfy my chocolate fix?
The whole Easter candy thing really began to bother me. It was much easier when I was oblivious to the whole thing.
We went to the Fair Trade chocolate section, you know the section, where there are extremely limited selections of chocolate that tastes like crap. Yes, the I’m-better-than-you section where the shelves drip with more over-priced self-righteousness than bad church on Sunday. In other words, I was in chocolate Hell, but where else could I go? I saw faces in my head of children that were so easy to love. There are more children in forced labor in the cocoa harvest just like the children I met. Just as beautiful. Just as smart. Just as lovable.
We bought the fair trade chocolate for Easter, bitter and expensive, and left Kroger. I did not feel self-righteous. I was annoyed nine ways to Sunday. I had left the comfort of my obliviousness which meant I had to act.
Leaving obliviousness always requires something. This visit to Kroger meant no cheap and tasty chocolate. What will it mean over the long haul? It wouldn’t hurt me to just unload chocolate from my food intake – I mean outside of the pain of never having another Kit Kat. I could finally confront my chocolate entitlement. I want to start leaning toward becoming more responsible with my consumption.
Now, where is all that cotton I wear coming from?
The driving drum beat moved the boys to dance in a circle in front of everyone seated in the shade under the palm trees. Only no one was still seated. We sang. We clapped. We pulsed as the music kept calling us deeper into something. A teenage girl, with perfect hand clap rhythm and an ethereal smile, led this Sunday morning worship, and she took us to a place none of us could get to on our own. One song poured into the next like milk into coffee, becoming one. The brand new, brighter-than-bleach t-shirt that sway against her cocoa dark Ghanaian skin was its own story of beauty and contrast. Behind her the lush green lawn of the hotel sloped down into the shimmering sun-dance lake, hazy mountains framed the water on the horizon, and a perfect blue sky served as a backdrop.
When the music came to an end, the in-country director of Touch a Life, Garret, stood to share how today was special – it was baptism Sunday. Sixteen of the children had studied about baptism and would be baptized today in Lake Bosomtwe. I only knew of single baptisms that trickled out one at a time with weeks or even months between them, controlled and manageable. Sixteen in one day felt like a river spilling it banks, too much unmanageable goodness all at once.
It also felt loaded with meaning in a way that was different than the already pregnant-with-meaning feeling of any baptism. I walked in silence toward the lake as everyone else made their chit-chat way in the same direction. Pressure built inside my heart - an emotion wanted to come out, but at the same time refused to declare its identity. I had to go looking for it. I found myself playing a game of hide and seek with an emotion and it was beating me. I heard it breathing and felt the weight of its nearness, but could not look it in the eye. “Come out, come out wherever you are,” I called, but it was more interested in teasing me than being exposed. And that is how it is with me and weighty emotions: I know first of their presence, next of their size, and in short order of their importance, but nothing of their nature. They all feel the same at first, like an unnamed pressure building up inside to announce it presence, but then stops right there, leaving me to wonder whether this is an attack, a game, a flirt or whatever. I vaguely even know whether the feeling is good or bad. At once I am aware of it presence and at the very same time oblivious to it meaning. And I never learn how to get access to it with any greater efficiency. Emotions outflank me every single time. Sometimes the feeling finally filters out into my awareness and I can name it and sometimes I have to track it through the jungle. This time I had to work to find it.
The emotion this time was big. Approaching the lake with this band of people, most of whom I did not even know their names, to engage in a Christian ritual so consequential and transforming pushed me to wonder whether I even deserved to be here and to witness this. I would wonder this many times over the week that followed. The emotion was not only big, it was growing.
We arrived at the lake’s edge. Some stayed on the grassy lawn while others made their way further to the water’s edge onto the mud flat where the lake was low. Rainy season would engage any day and the locals eagerly awaited the skies to make up for lost life giving rains. But today the sun shone bright and hot and the lake was low. Anticipation saturated the moment. At the edge of the grassy lawn under the palm trees, Pam Cope anointed each child with oil, one by one, holding each of them with the love of a mother, praying over each of them with the authority of a prophet, and then releasing each of them toward the water with the hopeful passion of woman whose been swept up into a mission bigger than she is.
No child walked to the water alone. One by one, each getting special attention from people who loved them, the children were escorted, some holding hands and others with arms over shoulders, into the water and were met by Garret the baptizer at water’s edge. Garret then took then into the water, with gentle hands, with loving hands – unforced. They went waist deep.
That pressure inside me intensified as I watched each child enter the water with Garret, stand with him, nod in agreement that they were giving their lives to Jesus, and then at the hand of a powerful man willingly be put under the water.
What does it mean for these children to be under water?
When was the last time they were under water?
What thoughts come to their minds when they went down into the water?
How does it feel to go under water at the hands of a powerful man?
Questions flooded my mind like the relentless beat of the drums. The imposing and yet elusive emotion pressing me from the inside out hit a climax and I wanted to cry just to see if that would help identify what the feeling was, but I couldn’t. It was almost rainy season, but not yet. The moment was too much to grasp as one by one, each child was plunged into the waters of baptism and reborn into a new life – freed again. I wanted to hold this moment, to capture it, to contain it, but I cannot catch the ocean with a thimble.
Then my mind went to a place I have never seen, but only imagined – Lake Volta. Every last one of these children endured forced labor on that lake. Every single day they endured exhaustingly long hours of dangerous and life threatening labor and were subject to the life draining soul violence of objectification. At the hands of their powerful master, they were plunged into the murky waters of Lake Volta to loosen fishing nets from underwater branches and logs. Under the water, they risked their lives because if they did not, they would be beaten within an inch of their lives. Death haunts everywhere on Lake Volta and is eager to feed. Most of the children saw other children go under the water and never saw them again, swallowed whole by the lake. They witnessed death by drowning and then had to go into the water hoping they loosen enough nets and hold their breath long enough for their master. Death haunts in every direction.
At the edge of Lake Bosomtwe, I stood next to one of the older boys who had been rescued 4 fours years prior. He is an intelligent, strong, and wise young man - a sixteen year old. I drummed up the courage to ask him a question.
“When do you think was the last time these children have been under water?”
He was silent and somewhat stone faced. “Long time,” he said conserving words.
Suddenly, as though I had forgotten for a while, I remembered I was a therapist, a mental health expert. My whole purpose for being here was to observe the children and the context and to make suggestions and recommendations pertaining to mental health. I wondered how traumatizing Lake Volta had been for these children.
What are they doing with their post-traumatic stress?
Does it reach the threshold of a disorder for any of them?
What are they doing with their memories?
Do they have nightmares?
Do they story their pain?
Again the questions rushed my mind. And in the flurry of questions it struck me with profound clarity – theology and psychology are merging at the waters of Lake Bosomtwe. Treatment for post-traumatic stress involves both exposure and narrative. Exposure therapy situates the traumatized individual into a similar situation as the trauma either through memory, performance, or location, but instead of the similar situation being dangerous, this time it is safe. Narrative therapy is the storying and restorying the events such that the assigned meaning changes and is redeemed. The story is eventually owned no longer by the perpetrator, but by the survivor.
Baptism in Lake Bosomtwe was the most beautiful Narrative Exposure Therapy for the trauma experienced in Lake Volta. At both lakes, these children went under water at the hands of a powerful man, but the meaning of each plunge under the water could not be more polar. The slave story of the masters of Lake Volta were being subverted sixteen times over by the redemption story of Jesus in Lake Bosomtwe. And now the story belongs in the hands of the children. Going under water does not only mean death anymore, it means resurrection, it means life, it means freedom!
And that is when the mystery of the mounting pressure of the elusive emotion inside finally resolved. It came out into the light to reveal itself. The feeling: awe. Moses felt this at the burning bush. Isaiah felt this when he saw God. The woman who touched the robe of Jesus and was healed felt this. It is proper feeling to have when God comes near.
As the poetry was performed in sixteen beautiful stanzas in Lake Bosomtwe, I stood in awe, at water’s edge, grateful and humbled to witness how the divine moves among people.
“You okay?” Asked Rachel. She saw the tears streaming down like rain on a window. She saw the resolute, but ambiguous stare forward through the windshield of the Touch A Life transport van. She saw a silent cry, the kind that doesn’t reveal much besides something weighty is going on in there. We sat close, me in the middle between she and the driver. We had long given up on the idea of personal space as everyone on this trip had gotten used to packing tight into vehicles - my right leg rest against her left leg, my left knee always in the way of the gear shift, and my shoulders scrunched with arms slung over the too large computer bag on my lap looking like I was trying to become small and failing badly at it. I would have been perfectly still had the road been in any way forgiving. Rather, I bounced around in this cramped seating arrangement like a theme park ride I had ridden one too many times.
This was the end of the stay in Ghana, the last time down these roads for who knows how long? I was headed back to air conditioning, smooth roads, and trustworthy tap water; the children remained there at the care center, and my heart already stretching thin between the two.
Rachel’s light blue eyes and strong gaze are next to impossible to ignore. She can command attention with a stare. Not this time. I stared straight ahead at nothing. Nothing. It seemed as though Nothing in and of itself had some profound meaning, like how absence is unseen and yet potent. I was in a staring contest with Nothing and it was winning. What was it? There was plenty to look at on the way to the Kumasi airport. Street vendors, ramshackle market booths, women walking along the wounded and potholed roadside carrying impossibly huge loads on their heads – how could there be Nothing? I’d seen these images all week. No, this time, even though it was all there, I was staring at Nothing and it put me to tears.
Everywhere I have ever been in my life I have seen myself there. I have always found enough familiar in it for me to see me. Canada, inner city Houston, and even Matamoros, Mexico offered some sense of myself. I looked for myself in Ghana and didn’t find anything. I found Nothing. Yes, I was Nothing. Oh my God, I was not in a staring contest with Nothing, I was in a staring contest with myself. The Nothing I saw was me.
And yet in Nothingness, there was feeling, there was passion, there was the sort of raw ache that insists upon a re-genesis of identity. It was not that I was Nothing, but rather that I could no longer be myself as defined by previous standards. It was not that I did not see myself in Ghana, it was that I did not see my old self in Ghana. My soul was stretched tight like a canvas, whitewashed, and then rapid splash painted with the images, experiences, and relationships that came on faster than an African thunderstorm.
“To answer your question,” I responded to Rachel, “no, I am not okay.” It was all I could say without my silent cry erupting into a full on ugly cry. I wanted to tell her I was ruined because of all this. I wanted to tell her I will never be the same again. I wanted to tell her I cannot unsee what I have seen and cannot unhear what I have heard. I wanted to tell her that I will never be able to piece my life back together like it was. Whatever I could remake of this undoing wasn’t going to be the same old me I had always known. I couldn’t speak about it. Words were a poor cart to carry the meaning.
At once I saw the past lives of the children at the Touch A Life Care Facility. I felt their past as though it were my own. I heard the lap of the water of Lake Volta on the side of the fishing boat, felt the whack of a paddle across my rib cage, and held my breath under water as long as I could while looking up in desperation as I was still far from water’s surface – and it was too much to bear. I had to flee the thought. But then I saw Lake Volta, all at once, and counted children scattered across the lake who knew their lives would never be anything different than this – hoping they wouldn’t die today, but having nothing to live for. Their eyes were windows to gasping souls. Days lined up forever with their dark hoods and boney fingers pointing down into the murky water. More children will die on that lake than will be rescued. It was too much to bear. I had to flee the thought. But everything kept coming at me and there was no escape.
In coming to know the children at Touch A Life, there is now only 1 degree of separation between me and Hell. Hearing one boy tell his story sounded like dispatches from Hades, like field notes from Hell. It was terrifying. And yet knowing he felt safe enough to tell his story and knowing desires to grow up and do something about child trafficking with his life is inspiring. Seeing the resilience, the courage, and the hope, there is now only 1 degree of separation between me and Heaven.
All at once I knew more pain than I had ever known and more joy than I had ever known. I felt everything all at once – and it was too much to bear. I couldn’t flee the thoughts, not all of them. And there was little more to do than cry that moment. No, I wasn’t okay, and it would have been wrong to be okay. Furthermore, I had it coming. I asked for such an experience the day I left for Ghana as I penned the following:
A Prayer Before Departure
I go to carry you with me;
I go to find you;
I go to find me;
I go to serve you.
Layers upon layers
Of toil
Of stress
Of complications
Of manic pace
Cover my heart
Numb my soul
Consume my intellect and
Tamp down my passion,
But I seek an uncovered heart
A sensitive soul
A freed intellect
And an emerging passion
To give the best of me
To the best of you
To serve the most beautiful of creatures
The world will ever witness
The young images of God
Those whose image has been attacked
Your image in their eyes, assaulted
They are free and they shall forever be
Free
May their hearts be freed
Like their bodies are now freed
May their souls be freed
Like their bodies are free
May their minds be freed
Like their bodies are free.
Free me to free them
Free them to free me.
I beg for freedom
For healing
For hope
For peace
I beg for love to be born of wounds
For hope to be born of despair
For goodness to be born of evil
For freedom to be born of slavery.
Let us all be free
Friday I step onto an airplane and head to NY to catch my flight to Accra, Ghana. I will then catch a flight on Starbow Airlines to Kumasi, my destination.
I will spend a week in Kumasi with two amazing organizations - Touch a Life and Connor’s Song. My role is mental health consultation for the children housed at the care facility.
In short, the children at the care facility have experienced significant trauma. First they have been traumatized by stifling poverty. Second, most of these children were traumatized by being sold into slavery. Third, they have been traumatized by slavery itself. Finally, they were rescued.
These children have had multiple transitions outside of their own control. They are well cared for and loved at the care facility, but they all carry a history of trauma.
Mental health care for many of these children is going to be a part of their healing and development. I will be working with an amazing Play Therapist and Art Therapist on site. Our plan is to assess the need of the children, assess the capacity of the context, and make recommendations for acute care as well as a model for long term care.
I will also be strategizing for ongoing connection between Touch A Life, Connor’s Song, and masters level Marriage and Family Therapy students. My great desire is to expose students to this opportunity and perhaps one or more will make it their mission to move to Ghana and work full time with these children.
Oh God, I’m begging for help;
You’re endlessly good;
Your love is bigger than the universe itself;
I blew it!
I blew it big time and it is bigger than I am;
Your love is the only thing bigger than my sin;
I need a do-over;
It keeps replaying in my mind over and over again;
It’s all I can think about.
I betrayed you. I embarrassed you. I made you look bad.
I deserve whatever revenge you can imagine,
And it still would not make things right;
This guilt hurts so bad it feel like I have always been bad;
Like I was born this way – evil;
The opposite of your desires.
I need to be scrubbed from head to toe;
From heart to soul;
I am filthy;
I am infected;
Clean me;
Heal me;
Restore me.
Could I never be happy again?
It seems impossible.
Could I ever look in the mirror again?
Seems hopeless.
But maybe? Could I?
Oh God, don’t look at me – I’m hideous.
Maybe you could just rip out the bad parts and leave the rest;
Maybe there would be something left.
Maybe just start over.
Create me a second time. Fresh. New.
I feel so torn.
I do not want to be far from you,
But I can’t stand to be with you when I am like this.
I used to have hope,
But that was before I ruined it;
Could I have this hope again?
Oh God, don’t leave me, not now, not in this time of crisis.
I promise I will never forget what I have done.
I will warn others about this.
It is my mission.
I will tell everyone how kind you are;
How filled with compassion you are;
How you ignored revenge and loved me instead.
I will tell how you did not require payment;
You did not exact a pound of flesh.
Let the goodness that I now know in you be for everyone;
I am certain that if everyone knew you this way,
There would be more joy in this world.
I could hold these meager Tennessee snow rations,
That try to pass as Winter,
In contempt of the entire season,
And I would have every right to do,
So little as they are,
Not even topping blades of grass,
Gone in 24 hours like fog,
Colonies of dwarf snowmen,
Yes, I could hold it all in contempt,
And it may be my obligation to do so,
Being a Minnesotan,
Having shoveled feet of snow,
Having chipped inches of ice,
Having only heard of snow days,
But rarely gotten one,
Having the annual span of months,
With frozen jeans,
With frozen boogers,
With frozen socks,
With frozen face.
It may be my obligation,
As we both say, “Winter,”
As shared word, with unshared meaning.
I could hold these meager snow rations,
Rounded up to an inch,
Ephemeral like mist,
Cowering from the sun,
In such a hurry to melt away,
In contempt.
I could,
I should,
I will not.
For snow, even in meager rations,
Is good medicine –
How it tops the wood pile in the back yard,
How it wisps off rooftops in the wind,
and glistens in the sun,
How it tells by driveways’ tracks,
who has left their home and who hasn't,
How it forgives the brown and black deadness of winter,
How it stretches the light of the sun to make the world brighter.
How it whispers
to my soul
“you are remembered”
So I lay my contempt to rest,
Under a thin blanket of snow,
And smile,
As the white disappears in the sun,
And my contempt with it,
As everyone has “endured the winter”
I will revel in my little morsel,
My meager rations,
Savor its taste,
Close my eyes into a blizzard of memories,
And smile.
