A letter from a young friend

     Walking to the tougher primary school near us where we teach twice a week, Katherine was stopped by one of our students who pointed out that her backpack was covered with ants.  This was after a rough morning with some tummy trouble - a challenge magnified because the latrine is 68 steps away (but the baking heat we've been having has made us grateful sometimes for that distance),  It turned out a bag of peanuts in Katherine's ubiquitous backpack had opened.  (A lady standing nearby in the school courtyard, sheltering from the broiling sun under a tree, urged us not to discard the bag of nuts, saying the ants would make the children enjoy them more!  We threw them away.)

     As she cleaned her pack Katherine was handed the following handwritten letter from a girl (14) whom we had taught in 5th grade last year; the outside of the letter was smudged at the folds, where it had been carried in a pocket, or backpack.  The girl is a refugee in the nearby United Nations refugee camp.  The spelling is hers.

                                                                                                                04 February 2015

Dear Catherine and Mark,

I write this letter to tell you that we will miss you when you go to United States of America.

You have been so kind to us.  You were my bests friends and teachers that mayed me to like you guys.  I would wish to see you again as my teachers.

You have been so kind to us refugees.  You helped us in the examinations.  In the examinations you helped us to study.  That mayed us refugees to love you guys.

I will never forget you Catherine and Mark.  You will be always in my heart.  I wish to see you again.

Your best friend

      Here is a picture of the writer:

When this picture was taken last week she had been at Friday afternoon "church practice," attended solely by the children of the refugee camp, all from central Africa, typically twice a week.  They sing hymns, distinctly different from the Swazi gospel music.  Lead by an insistent drum beat and sometimes a guitar and, this time, line dancing with arms gracefully swaying, the appeal for these teenagers could be similar to American bandstand, from the 50s.  This time a girl was drummer, lower right, but that is an eagerly sought role.  The drums in Africa I've seen are a section of oil barrel with fabric tightly stretched across both ends.  The sticks are . . . sticks.  Their church, to the left in the picture below, was originally and still is sometimes, a warehouse.