They call me Khawaja

"Khawaja" is called out in the darkness as I walk with my friend back to my compound one night. I smile. This child’s voice is calling out after seeing me walk down the street. White person. But the voice doesn't sound scare. They sound excited. I smile and we continue on our way.

The children here in WES give me hope. Children are so resilient. I know that they have faced many hardships, and will face more to come. But through it all the children bring a sense of hope, of a future that can be better.

One of my favorite parts of my walks, especially my morning walk to work, is seeing the children. I often walk into work around the time that the children are going to school. I greet many and have chatted with a few. Khawaja is yelled so often and from different directions that I do not always know where it is coming from. I try to wave and identify whoever has called out for me, often the kids in the school room or courtyard that have spotted me walk by. Even weeks later they call out to me. I try and greet those that I can and say hi to those who want to chat.

However, my very favorite part of my morning walk is being greeted by 4 children who play outside the shelter their mother cooks food to sell from. These 4 kids run up and greet me each time I walk down the road. They offer me tentative handshakes and little bits of English that they know. One of the girls also likes to curtsey when she sees me.

There is another little boy, even younger than these four who loves to say hi. One day he got up the courage to come and shake my hand but then as soon as he did, he ran away crying. His mother has brought him up to say hi to me since then. He still cries if he touches me. He doesn't understand why my skin is white. But every day he happily waves to me and shouts hi as I walk by, but from the safety of his mother's side.

There are many wells in Yambio and as I walking near one, where several girls are filling up their water jugs, I see another child sitting inside an old water jug and a boy pulling the child around in it. They giggle and are happy. Such simple pleasures and simple ways to entertain themselves.

In Nzara I watch the kids play with a soccer ball as I walk back from the clinic. They are excited to play and energetic as they chase the ball. Soccer has its own rules here, amongst the children, rules I don't know, but it is fun to watch the kids play. Many don't wear shoes but they still chase the ball and play hard.

There are other little kids who have crafted cars out of boxes. They take wires and small sticks, then poking holes through bottle caps they fashion cars and trucks out of this pile of what was once trash. Groups of them will play with these newly created vehicles for hours. Their happy laughs abundant.

Outside my compound there is a woman who sells nuts and fruits. Her name is Brenda. She has 2 children. I have spent many hours sitting with them, the kids chatter with me, the girl pretends to be shy but the minute I leave her side she runs back to me. The kids play with my hair, show me their dance moves, and take turns steeling my phone to take photos with it. I get hugs and friendship and a sense of family here on the bench with them.

Another little boy has stolen a piece of my heart. He is the son of one of my friends and he is absolutely adorable. He calls me "sister", a term common here for white women here (referring to the nuns who used to be in this region). He is adorable and chatters, though he is wary of me. Listening to him laugh and play brings happiness. And watching his father care for him restores some more hope for the future of the children here.

One of the funniest experiences that happens to me, and other Khawaja, is when a very young child, often between the ages of 1 and 2 sees me or another white person for the first time. I will try and greet these children. Some will come up to me but others are scared of me. Some are interested in trying to understand why my skin is the wrong color and will approach me. Inevitably, though, they will cry. It is often funny and cute and makes the parents laugh.

My favorite time this happened was when I was inside the maternity clinic and someone had their young son with them. I saw him and waved but I was distracted and was not looking. He was originally standing by his mother but then he toddled over to me. When my co-worker alerted me to the little boys presence I crouched down next to him and held out my hand. The boy touched it and then started to cry. Rather than run away though, he curled into my side and hid his face. I tried to comfort him but it was clear I also scared him, but still he curled into me. His mother came and retrieved him after a minute. We all laughed. He was a really cute kid.

I've had quite a few kids react like this when I am at the clinic. One boy would cry any time he saw me rounding or walking around the clinic. I didn't even come near him but he was very scared of me. I am told by other volunteers that this is very normal. It just makes me chuckle.

The kids here manage to find joy with so little. They look out for each other. It is not uncommon to see children under the age of 5 taking care of each other or walking down the road together holding hands. The kids play together and have their own community. And the women in the village look after them. I hope for a brighter future for each of these kids, and that their happiness holds.