Day 7

            It is difficult to see the tragedy behind the faces you see in the favela.  Smiles and what can be taken as ordinary childish laughter serve to mask the pain that occurs there.  Children begin sniffing glue as early as age seven, only to move on to harder drugs later in life.  They’re physically hungry.  I can’t stand missing a lunch because I may not have enough time once in a while during busy days.  I bitch and moan to myself, but these kids have to deal with hunger daily, and continually.  One child, probably about five or six, named Richard, is dying of leukemia.  He’s smaller and much weaker because of it.  The other kids know it.  They steal from him because he is too weak to defend himself.  Simone talked to one of the girls, Paula, as we handed out sandwiches.  “Can we have more bread tomorrow?  And the day after that?”  She asks with such excitement and enthusiasm for simple sandwiches made of bread and a thin slice of bologna, food that might be promptly rejected or at best tolerated by people over here (for the most part).  She then follows up her question, telling Simone “… but I can’t eat too much… if I do I might get pregnant.”  Ignorance on the part of the parents?  No.  They simply lied to her so that she wouldn’t complain when she’s hungry.  She was too young to realize she’s poor.  The favela is their lot on earth.  I wish I could do more, stay longer, give more.

            Tonight the kids took hot showers for the first time.  I discovered that up until this point, they’ve been taking cold ones.  I take so much for granted.

            Pastor’s wife Jennifer and the Pastor, Jonathan, met Gabriella’s family.  She’s a little energetic busy-body type girl, very cute and very lively.  She’s about eleven.  Her and her five brothers and sisters live with their parents in a small shack.  They have little when it comes to physical needs.  An empty fridge held together by a bungie cord stored two potatoes.  The children were malnourished, and that lack of nutrition became agitated by the tapeworms.  We bought them medicine for the worms, so that what little they eat will go to their bodies, not the parasites.  Someone tried to steal those medicines, believing them to be painkillers.  Thankfully we got them back.  Even within this poor community some were better off than others.  No one can claim to be wealthy, though.

            We handed out sandwiches today.  I’ve never seen people so overjoyed by sandwiches.  Simple, simple sandwiches.  Not even any mayo or mustard.  Just thick bread rolls with one slice of bologna.  They were ecstatic, though.  The kids were ecstatic over what we would consider meager at best.  We desperately tried to hand out the sandwiches as fairly as possible.  Nonetheless many of the kids tried to lie to get more.  They hid one sandwich behind their backs with one hand and extended the other to get another one.  They hid it in their pockets, so after a while we figured it out and started patting their pockets.  It’s not like I didn’t want to feed them.  I wished we had an infinite amount.  But we needed to make sure they all had at least one or two.  It took strength to hand out food and to say no to those who ate theirs already and wanted more.  I couldn’t blame the kids for trying to get more.  They are starving, after all.

            We held a service that night under the currently roofless church.  Simone, a team member, asked some people to close the windows because it was getting cold.  Jake astutely pointed out that there was no roof, so closing the windows would do little to rectify the situation!  The stars weren’t visible because of the brightness of the church interior.  We sung together in unison, as Christians who are part of one church, even though we live different lives on different parts of the globe.  As we worshipped, I prayed, and saw what I believed to be messages from God.  He’s a God who had a fiery passion for his people here, who are suffering.  Why does God allow the bad things to happen?  And to good people, no less.  Because we have free will on this earth.  Man has the freedom to do what he wants.  And oftentimes he uses this freedom for evil.  The people in the favelas are not there by accident – it’s an intentional choice made by the status quo politicians and drug lords who benefit.  The favela people are paying for the selfishness of the Brazilians who are in power.  Does God want to free these people?  Yes.  But He needs good people willing to stand up and fight on the behalf of the poor and disenfranchised.  He needs wealthy Brazilians to help, he needs people from rich countries to care.  It’s easy to blame the evil on this earth on God, when oftentimes the finger should be pointed at the evil and at the complacent.  Do I believe God is good?  Yes, and even after my experience there, I still do.  Do I hate America and Americans for the unparalleled wealth enjoyed in the country by the people?  No. What occurs in Brazil is not actively perpetuated by the government.  But it’s not being stopped by the people who have the power to, even if it’s just by being informed and donating a little money.  That’s my vision from God.  Of two fiery eyes that have a passion for the poor.  But the workers are few.  Few care.  More need to.

            I never truly believed in supernatural miracles until I witnessed one with my own eyes.  You don’t have to believe me, and in fact, if you don’t, I understand.  I wouldn’t believe me if I were in your shoes either.  But I will tell what I saw.  The local pastor’s brother, Antonio, had one leg about four inches shorter than the other.  The left leg.  We sat him down in a chair and prayed for him.  As we prayed, I watched his leg.  Nothing happened.  I was worried that we’ll all look stupid, because we prayed and nothing will happen.  We’ll all end up looking foolish.  But in my heart I felt God telling me to not trust my eyes, but to trust the eyes of my heart instead.  So I closed my eyes and just started believing.  About a minute later I opened my eye, and the shorter leg was elongated!  Antonio was not struggling or trying to push his leg.  He was sitting perfectly still.  It was simply something that I don’t think anyone can explain.  It happened.

Day 6

            We visited the rural Bauru favela for the second day.  The kids were equally as eager to see us.  We handed out soccer balls, one per family.  They lined up to take turns getting the balls.  These kids each had at least three to four siblings.  We wrote family names to prevent stealing.  One kid told us he was an only child, in order to get his own ball.  Needless to say, in a village with so many children and people who have offspring, we weren’t convinced.  Either way, they’d be stealing the balls from one another.  Playing alone without adult supervision, or guidance, these children basically raise themselves.  No one stops fights or stealing.  Franciellem, one of the teens, showed me a paper with Portugeuse and English written on it, to help her learn the latter.  My idea had spread.  They wanted so desperately to speak to us!

            We began work on the church and home.  Walls were painted, windows were being installed.  They’ll have a beautiful community center and church once all is said and done.

            My first impression of the village was that of peaceful subsistence farming.  However I was wrong.  The children, the community, all of them live under a shadow of fear and intimidation, as ruthless druglords ruled their domain.  During the day, a car passed very quickly, without even slowing down to mind the children.  The kids tugged my arm, and made gun motions with their fingers, saying “bang bang”.  I saw the drug dealers.   Everyone knew who they were, and feared them.  I wanted these thugs gone.

            The girls that Semra got especially attached to are the nieces of the dealers.  She’s met them.  The children are so great, and so bright.  Under the right circumstances, they can compete in schools with anyone else under wealthier circumstances.  It saddens me that they face so many hurdles so early one.  Babies care for babies.  Four year olds take care of their two year old siblings.  Mothers are no more than fifteen.  It was strange, these teenage parents watched on as the younger children played ball, almost wanting to join themselves (they are, after all, almost children themselves!), but refraining, because of their roles as parents.

            One bright kid, Jefferson, who quickly befriended all of us, learned our names, picked up English, and understood that we couldn’t speak Portugeuse, invited us to his house.  I look forward to it.

            That night we visited a church in Bauru.  The music was a lively, the worship beautiful.  Two saxophones and a trumpet blared, accompanied by percussions, a drummer, electric and acoustic guitarists and a drummer.  It was awesome, as I enjoyed the music without understanding the lyrics of the worship songs.  I prayed that these people would develop a heart for the favelas.  The potential to make a difference existed.  After all, in the favelas dwelled their countrymen, people of the same language, and same rich cultural heritage.  I met a half-Japanese Brazilian girl, and we related because we both have slanted Asian eyes.  I guess there weren’t too many Asians in Bauru.

            What touched me was the fact that I only knew Christians existed in other parts of the world intellectually.  But I never felt any connection.  But being at the church, I felt a bond with these people, who live different lives, with a different culture, different language, and across a different hemisphere.  But we shared a God.  We are a family.  I felt the same presence of God there as I would at DCA or DCF.

            We ate with Patricia, Lucas, and their baby Caroline, along with Ricard and Luis (All are friends we met from the Bauru favela).  The pastor of the church and his wife were there as well.  We did our rain dance, which is a random dance to the song “Return to Innocence” by Enigma.  It’s this random tradition of sorts developed as we stopped at gas stations on the roadtrip.  It later became danced at restraunts, multiple gas stations, street corners, and parking lots between Sao Paulo and Brazil.  What an awesome trip!

Day 5

           We visited a rural favela today in a town called Bauru.  The city is about 300,000 people, a Sacramento sized city (approximately).  A much different environment exists out here.  The city is definitely less crowded than Sao Paulo, less chaotic, and it doesn’t smell like raw sewage.  The homes are less densely clustered, there are very few high rise condo developments.  The city is generally nicer than Sao Paulo.  Like Sao Paulo, all of the vestiges of American wealth exist for the richer citizens.  Grocery stores, Wal-Mart, and McDonalds all serve the needs of the consumerism that characterizes the middle and upper classes.

            The favela was definitely different than the urban one.  It was much more peaceful, and actually surrounded by very beautiful scenery and landscape.  Small scale subsistence farming helps feed some of the families.  The land yielded lettuce, cilantro, strawberries, bananas, cane sugar, and mangos.  The local pastor and his wife lived in a house with a church sanctuary attached.  It was made basically of recycled materials, much like the rest of the houses in the neighborhood.  My initial impression of this place is a peaceful village.  Spending more time here will prove me wrong.

Day 3 - 4

            We visited a favela for the first time… at night.  No paved roads, rickety homes built four layers deep away from the main streets, topped off with a river of raw sewage flowing between the houses.  Children of different ages ran about everywhere, alone without adults around.  It was unlike anything I’ve seen before.  It was a level of poverty far more severe than anything experienced in the United States, a place with few opportunities, a place where people just survive.  We visited Fran, a woman from the favela whom Sandreia developed a friendship with.  Fran would be hired to clean Sandreia’s apartment, even though she didn’t really need a cleaner.  It was Sandreia’s way to help her out, give her an income to support her family.

            The dwellings were made of concrete.  They had more amenities than you would expect, but that’s because this favela is one of the “wealthier” (relative to the rest of them) ones.  Small fridges and stoves, running water, and linoleum floors adorned the interiors of one of these tiny homes.  They also had electricity.  The children, Sope told me, were probably two to three years older than they looked.  Due to malnutrition, poor children develop slower than their wealthier, well fed counterparts.  The adults, I would guess, look older than they actually are due to the tough lives they lead.

            The streets were muddy, the houses were made with whatever spare parts could be scavenged, and we were probably in more danger than we knew.  Each of the favelas are run by ruthless and violent druglords.  Police and other citizens of Brazil do not tread in these territories.  Law and order came from the ruling druglords.  People pay them “protection” money, and the community must obey and serve them.

            Social problems plague the people there.  One of Fran’s sons, Paulo is in jail for stealing, a profession he undertook after quitting his drug dealing (which earned him 8 bullets after the druglords got through with him).  It’s a miracle that he’s alive.  Another son, Andreas, wants to quit school.  He’s in the fourth grade.  What will become of him, without an education to channel and develop his untapped talents and potential?  Probably drug-dealing and violence for quick cash.  Very little opportunity exists for these kids.  They’re young and energetic, sharp, and beautiful, but they were born into poverty.  Without economic and education opportunities, they will probably live much like their parents when they grow up – making a living either through crime or struggling to provide for themselves with low paying menial jobs.

            We played with the kids, and they were very eager to get to know us.  Very rarely did any outsiders enter the favelas.  In fact, when our vans arrived, they thought we were government service people there to fix the sewage river, as it had a tendency to overflow once a year during the rainy season, going as high as a meter deep.  We gave them rubber soccer balls.  They were ecstatic, probably the first new toys they’ve seen in a while.  We played with the balls in the alley outside of where Fran resided.  It seemed to just naturally happen.  We started simply bouncing the balls back and forth.  Later we exchanged hugs and laughs, all without speaking each other’s languages.  I would frustratingly speak English slowly and loudly, thus forgetting that the local children don’t understand a single word, having grown up with little education, and speaking only Portuguese.  It didn’t matter.  They knew we cared about them.

            Before we left, we went to the home of Fran’s parents.  We gave cake and soda, and prayed for the old couple.  Tears streamed down their faces as we prayed (we had Joao translate).  It was very touching, the people there probably never encountered outsiders who treated them as equals.  And even without the ability to speak a common verbal language, we still expressed love towards one another.

            Tonight we also drove to Bauru, to the rural favela.  We got there late.