Achieng in the Rain

My African name is Achieng, it loosely means sunshine. All children are given one common surname along with their unique individual name in Eastern Africa, and as I became acquainted with the culture, I was soon honored with Achieng for my love of the African Sun. In Amor Village, Uganda I am known as Sammy Achieng Fiegel, or Auntie Sammy. There is truly nothing as magical and majestic as watching the sunset over the Eastern plains of Africa. It is a giant ball of orange, and coral, golden yellow, and burning bush red that seems to cover the entire horizon as it slowly sets below the Baobab trees. Every evening I found myself in awe of this daily transition from day to night, and I would watch calmly and patiently as the sun set below the water valley of Amor. And so because my African family thought I was a bit crazy for this, as of course for them it is simply the sun which normally sets bold and bright and brilliant across the land, they gave me my name, Achieng.

Not many people have the opportunity to travel to Africa. I have been blessed to have travelled there not just once, but twice, and hopefully soon to be a third time. Once you experience the TRUTH and LIFE of Uganda, it compels you forever. My heart lives there and will always be there.

There are few moments in life that stay with you forever- every sight, every sound, every feeling of that moment, wrapped into one visual image that when you revisit that image in your mind, you feel a wave of utter joy and despair all at once- joy for the heartfelt remembrance, and deep despair for the reality that it will never come again. For me, it was the day it suddenly poured down rain, in a rural bush village, atop a vast hill, on a crowded fútbol field, with a hundred screaming children. It was on a trip, and on a day, when my life at that time was broken and my heart was in need of healing. It was the rain that made me new.

The best part of both of these experiences- the sunsets and the futbol field rain, two experiences years apart, great distances apart, a lifetime it seemed for me in between these memories, is that one informed the other and they both bring me here today to tell the story of the latest undertaking I have begun… to build a well in Amor Village, Uganda and name it after my late father, Petey.

After my first trip to Africa, I was able to see firsthand the work of an amazing organization called Fields of Life. The soccer field was home to one of the sites that Fields of Life was supporting, a village that they had built a flourishing school in, employing local teachers, training local staff, funding sponsorships for children. The Mount Everest Primary School in Kitandwe, Uganda was opened in March 2009 after an honored friend of mine, Ian Taylor, summated Mount Everest to raise enough to officially open the school with Fields of Life. When I visited in 2011, we were graciously greeted with music, love, laughter, hope and most importantly a soccer match. And so, on a hot afternoon towards the end of dry season in Eastern Uganda with no signs of rain and no rain in months, we, the outnumbered Mzungus (the Bantu language’s endearing name for White people) played against the school children. As we ran barefoot in the rugged bush over rocks and pot holes and bugs, we laughed and fell, and chased the ball through the field doing our best to keep up. And as we laughed and panted from exhaustion, we were having so much fun that we didn’t seem to notice the ominous clouds rolling in. And all at once, the rain came down.

Yes, I know there is a song about the African rains, as yes I know the idea of rain coming down in Africa seems cliché and cheesy, but there is no memory more joyful that I have than this very moment on the field in the pouring rain in Africa. We all stopped in disbelief, and as the shock wore off the squeals and elated screams ensued, and before long, us Mzungus and the children were smushed into a big, dirty, wet, bundled mess huddled together jumping in unison, giving body-shaking thanks to the rain and to the heavens.

After my trip to Uganda, I became a dedicated follower and supporter of Fields of Life. The organization currently works in Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi, Kenya, Democratic Republic of Congo and South Sudan partnering in providing sustainable community development through education, water, and enterprise. I now sit on the newly instated USA Board for the organization- working to create more opportunities and partnerships here in the US.

A few months after my Dad died in the summer of 2016, I stumbled across an opportunity to get back to Uganda, and this time I would be merging my career with my passion. I was selected to be a part of a two person team to travel to Amor Village in Uganda, and support children and women through empowerment Art Therapy groups. The opportunity was a dream come true, and little did I know that after this visit my heart and my dad’s heart would find a permanent home.

This trip to Amor Village was truly one of lifetime. I lived in the village alongside the children with their giggles and songs and games, the matriarchs of Pearl Community Empowerment Foundation who support the village through agriculture, community building, and school expansion, and also the free roaming chickens, the roosters who woke me in the mornings, the cows that strolled across the fields to the valley every day, and the pigs that trotted about with their babies. I spent my days using Art Therapy to encourage communication, collaboration, camaraderie, a sense of hope and accomplishment, connection, and compassion. For many of the adults, it was the first time they had written anything, used paint, and cried with eachother. For the girls, it was the first time they opened up or spoken in front of a group, the first time they shared their feelings out loud. For me, it was everything. It was moving, emotional, hard, things would get off track due to language barriers, things would change and morph from our original idea, but we all moved together and we learned to be vulnerable in our similarities. We huddled together in a group hug at the end of each session and we’d sing and laugh in the hot African sun.

I spent my evenings playing games I didn’t understand, and singing songs I didn’t know with the children until my feet were brown with dirt and my shoulders were burnt from the sun. I was welcomed to dinner over the spitfire each night where we talked about our different lives and laughed about the funny things white people do. I felt at home. I felt my Dad everywhere, his love guiding my thoughts, my words, my relationships and I felt him in the strangers’ hugs and smiles that soon became my lifelong friends.

Both times in Africa I witnessed the scarcity, barrenness, and harshness of its dry season. In the bush and villages, water is what brings life and what gambles with death. Access to water, and clean water, is rare and is never guaranteed. I visited the valley water holes where villagers walk miles to everyday and gather the minimal water that comes out of the ground in order to merely survive each week of the lengthy and slow season.

A borehole well would penetrate the ground and allow for greater depth and a constant, clean, and reliable supply of water. My dream is to build a borehole for the village of Amor and the people who became my family. Fields of Life has agreed to build this well if I can raise the ≈$10,000 it costs to make that happen.

The connection of my two experiences is obvious, as my journey with Fields of Life has inspired me to support the village of Amor that gave life and love back to me after losing my Dad. But as I sat down to write this story in preparation for my first attempt at raising a portion of that money, I realized the deeper connection. As I danced in the rain on that field in Kitandwe, I witnessed the purity and immense purpose of rain. To hydrate, to bring life, to renew, to nourish, to grow, to strengthen, to GIVE WATER. And then, in Amor, I was reminded of the dire importance of the rain and of water. My first trip to Uganda changed my life- that day in the bush, on the hill, on the field, in the rain, it saved my life. My second trip to Uganda, reminded me of the importance of life… it brought me back to life. Water is the connection, the constant, the need, my calling.

In one day I will run a half marathon to raise my first $3,000 towards Petey’s well… My first run in almost 3 years, and my first year living and training in elevation. I cannot say that I’m not a bit terrified, but the little, tiny, minuscule bit of struggle I will feel is all for something bigger than me, for the ability to provide CLEAN WATER to an entire village... A village that I love and a life that I miss that will always be a part of who I am. So, I look forward to the pain.

GOOD PAIN because of GOOD RAIN.

If you are able, please donate and help me BUILD A WELL!!!!! I am, and will be, forever grateful.

Listen to: There Will Be Time by Mumford & Sons, Baaba Maal. (We never have as much time as we think we do, so do with it what makes your soul free).

Mr. C.

Has a stranger ever walked into your life and changed it forever? Have you ever had a real, true soulmate? One in which your thoughts and messages were so interconnected that being with them made your heart laugh? Have you ever had a best friend that was 3 generations older than you? Have you ever loved someone who possessed all seven intelligences? Had a conversation with someone so thoughtful and life-changing, but they spoke a different language than you? 

I have. Except not all in different circumstances... all of those things describe one man in my life... I’ll call him Mr C. for short.

And. I just recently found out that he is dying. 

So, in utter sadness, shock, fear, and worry I must process this news....

It’s difficult to me to find a place to start this story, similarly, it’s difficult to explain quite how Mr C. became not only my soulmate, but my family, my grandpa, my hero.

I guess the easiest place to start is with him. His story is one of true epic proportions and how he came to be all those things to lil’ ole’ me still baffles me and leaves me in awe.

-The spark notes summary of his life- Born in China, he was an industrious child, learning new ways to make money through acquired skills and street knowledge. He was a child performer and crafter at a very young age, sculpting, photographing, and being onstage. He traveled hundreds of miles ON FOOT across the mountain plains of China to escape military persecution and war, and to reunite with his family when he was just a teenager. 

He later became a chemical engineer inventing personalized soaps. But he loved theatrics too much to stay settled in factory life, so he started learning videography. 

When Russia invaded, he was just a student cameraboy but was favored by the regime and he was quickly promoted to a Director under their control. This opportunity gave him the ability to learn the trade and flourish as a film director. He later wrote, produced and directed many films and also dabbled in the world of opera and theatre. 

Then he fell in love, got married, and when the Cultural Revolution fell upon his country he was separated from his family and had to survive in a rural labor camp. He is the patriarch of a beautiful family and has literally survived the most difficult tribulations one can experience in a lifetime.

Despite a tedious survival of political and social upheaval of his country, he somehow found time to become a Grand Master of Qigong and a cherished artist of Chinese Painting. He later traveled the world teaching Qigong and his most recent artworks, created in his late 80’s, were showcased in a downtown cultural art gallery in Chicago. 

A genius. The man is a genius. So when this 87 year old Grand Master came to me as an intern on my very first week at my first practicum site, requesting art therapy, it would be an understatement to say that I was intimidated.

As I mentioned, his English was spotty and broken to say the least but at our first meeting he trudged confidently, with help from his daughter, through his entire life story... bits and pieces of which I would hear more about as our time together went on, and bits and pieces I would sit quietly listening to in astonishment digesting his movie script life and heroic resilience. ‘How on Earth could I help him?’ I would think... and quite frankly why me???

Not only was I brand new to practicing therapy with clients, but this age gap and cultural gap seemed incredibly daunting and almost silly to attempt to close. But it’s funny, after day one... we were locked, on each other. Our journey was just beginning and as he left my office, I knew that something magical was going to happen.

Mr C. was facing a existential crisis. For the first time in his entire lifetime, his mind had taken a backseat to the ailments of his body. No longer able to fight his age, his heart was beginning to die and he was losing control. He had sunken into a deep depression and his family was worried about his lack of interest in his usual painting, reading, community. All Mr C. wanted was to feel happiness and light again, and so he looked to me for that spark, that youth, that acceptance of reality. He needed a reminder, an acknowledgement of his ability to still be present, to show up, and to feel LIFE again.

So we painted.

He called me Teacher. And each time he referred to me as that, he did so with his thick Chinese accent, an excited inflection, and a point upwards to the sky. His sounds were some, are some, of my favorite sounds in the world. Our language communication was broken between bits of English, and words of Mandarin and Cantonese, but mostly filled with sounds of hmmms, ahhhs, Ahas!, yesssses, and never ending belly laughter followed by deep sighs. I’ve never communicated better with anyone in my life. We had intense “conversations” filled with eerie coincidences, unexplainable themes and similar contemplations, and our relationship mirrored our souls and also resembled the transference of a granddaughter, grandfather relationship. He imparted wisdom, I imparted life. A granddaughter myself, of a hardcore resilient and wholeheartedly loving refugee, my grandmother is like a alternate-dimension-version of Mr C.. Thus, we understood each other with an understanding so deep and strong that at times it felt we were moving together on a transitory path.

Our art spoke to each other- I taught him watercolor, collage, acrylic, mixed media expressions, “western art” as he called it, and through it we told each other stories of triumphs, defeats, crisis, concerns, existential questions and contemplations, political and socioeconomic worries, traumas, grief, loss, death, life, victories and legacy. We shared, we learned, we questioned, we contained, we processed, we accepted. And Mr C’s heart healed, and mine blossomed. 

As our therapeutic relationship grew to an end, my closeness to his family developed. I became an advocate for them in their communities- supporting moves, financial issues, mental health struggles, medication needs, and with his grandchildren in their school systems. And as I moved on from that job site shortly after, my role shifted from professional advocate to friend, helper, supporter. Our cultural norms and guidelines here in the West don’t always apply to the world at large. As Mr. C had put it, I had saved his life and his soul, and to his family that meant I was family. If I were to abandon my relationship with them the moment I left this agency and we ended therapy, not only would they have been utterly confused, but I would have dishonored them, and they would have felt shamed and hurt. 

While I had no intention of doing so, my ethical guidelines as a therapist had to and have to be adapted and applied appropriately and thoughtfully as I cross cultural barriers and norms, something I’ve advocated before professionally as a culturally competent and diversified Art Therapist. The words we hold ultimate here as rules and regulations, are at times, disrespectful and inapplicable in other cultures around the world. I’ve worked with diverse populations for many years both here in the US and abroad, and the most valuable thing I’ve learned is that you must learn to adapt to maintain integrity, rapport, unconditional positive regard and safety, AND to move with your clients and relationships, and not against them. You must be human, real, AND then professional.

And so, as the few years continued on and I was far separated from being a professional in their lives, they later became my family. 

It was an extremely hard day for me, three years later, when I had to say goodbye to Mr C. He and his wife had decided to move back to China to spend the rest of their elder years in their home country.

I never quite realized the vast extent of his influence in my life until I looked back on our story. He not only touched my life, but my family’s. My grandma, mother and sister shared a Christmas brunch with his daughter and grandchildren, his daughter shared healing energy with my mini nephews, my grandma and mother visited his gallery in Chicago and his daughter’s Chinese New Year’s performance, and my husband and I immersed ourselves in his culture when we decided to visit him in Shanghai. 

One of the most amazing trips of my life was spent with his family in Shanghai. We visited rural art villages and water cities, we ate fancy Chinese meals with him after ‘kidnapping’ him from his senior living center in the hospital, as we rolled his wheelchair across the busy city streets. We laughed in his small room where he refused to eat the provided meals and ordered from the Chinese version of Grub Hub everyday on his phone. I cried next to his bed where he keeps a picture of the two of us smiling brightly as we proudly hold pictures of our artwork up to the camera.

That trip changed my life. It changed Andy’s life- it was the first time out of the country for him. I was anxiously nervous and curious for his reaction. Yet, he was the most at home and calm I have ever seen him to be. One of the only white men for miles, literally at times, in a sea full of people and a culture so drastically different from our own, he broke out of his shell and I saw him change right in front of my own eyes. By the end of day 1, he was endearingly referred to as 哥哥 gòhgō (brother) by Mr. C.’s granddaughter. He ate all the food, talked to all the people, tried all the things. And that new life I saw inside him...I owe that to my friend, Mr. C..

This last week Andy has checked in on me, asking me if I was okay.... I’ve been in my “mood”, I like to call it. My depression. And he always does a good job to notice and remind me so that I can take action and sort through what it is a need to move through it. And sometimes I don’t know where it comes from or what triggers it... but after reflecting today on all this, I know exactly what it is… part of my soul is dying. More grief is headed my way and I’m preparing, I’m aching, I’m scared. Part of me is hurting because he is hurting. Once again, I will be faced living in a world where one of my heroes no longer exists and I needed to release that fear. And yet I must also contemplate how lucky I am to have a relationship so special, so strong, so invaluable that I am un-separated from Mr. C. so much so that as he begins to leave this world part of me is leaving.

The point of this sharing moment... well, it’s selfish mostly... it is an externalization for me to process the loss I am experiencing and to address my “mood”. But there’s more. There’s the reminder that strangers can be our next best friends, that our own self doubt shouldn’t stop us from the ability we have inside to CONNECT us to one another. That is our human gift. Mr C never made me feel inferior, he reminded me that my tiny light had the strength to save his superior heart. There’s the resilience, and the idea that his pain is what brought us together. His final struggle in life is what allowed him to truly process his life’s journey, his legacy, and to heal and transcend from the inevitability and finality of death. There’s the culture, the significance that all of our stories and lives and ways of life are beautiful, and when we are open-minded and share in our vulnerability and different experiences, together we become closer as individuals. The misguided disparity of the world shrinks. And then there’s Mr C.. He is an open book and has always allowed me to share his story because if it was up to him the world would listen and love. So maybe it’s just that simple... his story is part of my purpose, and I must simply share HIM.

We love you 公公 gung gung (grandpa).

Listen to: Everglow by Coldplay