Highlights!

By Hester Bentil

From my last blogpost, I promised to tell you more about my wonderful and resourceful friend Eddie Oketta (EO) who currently manages three businesses in Gulu, Northern Uganda. As much as I want to inspire you by telling you his story, I don’t want to miss the opportunity to share some of my significant moments while in Uganda.

As the saying goes, “everything that has a beginning has an end.”  All too soon, I am at the tail end of my summer internship.  Though challenging, it has been a great learning experience. While in Uganda, I had the opportunity to interact with senior business leaders and influential people, including the Senior Presidential Advisor on African Growth and Opportunity Act (AGOA), Commissioner for External Trade, Ministry of Trade which has been a great leadership development experience for me. You will agree with me that interacting with all these professionals require mental curiosity and the skill of asking intelligent questions while exhibiting high ethical standards.  Having the opportunity to interact with these leaders and establishing great relationships has been deeply gratifying.

Let me give you a background into AGOA and Ministry of Trade.  AGOA is a non-reciprocal trade preference program that provides duty-free treatment on U.S. imports of certain products from eligible sub-Saharan African (SSA) countries. The Ministry of Trade on its part facilitates trade transactions in Uganda. As part of my field research, I needed to engage with senior leaders of both institutions  to gather credible information. Below are some pictures for my repertoire!

Hester and Senior Presidential Adviser of AGOA, Uganda

Hester engaging the team at Ministry of Trade, Uganda

Engaging with the only lady carpenter in Kampala (an entrepreneur currently awarded a Mandela Washington Fellowship for African women leaders to study in the U.S.A, and represented her country on CNN as a woman entrepreneur) has really been a humbling learning experience for me as a woman. With an IT background and deep experience in the creative industry, she spends most of her time teaching and mentoring others as a way of giving back to the community. She is famously known in Uganda for her luxurious high quality furniture and accessories.

Hester and the Entrepreneur

It may seem all fun, but like I did mention earlier, challenging at the same time. One of the challenges had to do with communication gaps which existed due to the language barrier (Nancy Kasvosve, my fellow intern, you are not alone in this). Due to the historical war in Gulu, most of the indigenes had no opportunity to complete their education pursuits, a situation that has partly contributed to their inability to understand and speak English fluently. This made communication with some individuals (other than those in the formal sector) a bit challenging. The worst case always happened anytime I went to the market to shop for food ingredients - I was constantly faced with a communication barrier particularly with impatient sellers, thus spending a greater part of my time on translation. Such a pain!

I didn’t want to end my stay without showing off my WDI-Summer internship cute flag and how athletic I am. I guess, I may be fit enough to compete in the next Olympic Games! As my slogan goes, once an athlete always an athlete!

Confidently showing off

 

Business Director of TMP helping out for a great capture

 

An attempt to touch the sky!

 

You can touch the sky too. I hope you enjoyed reading!

My Language Struggles in Brazil!

By Nancy Kasvosve

I cannot believe it but I am sadly at the tail end of my time in Brazil :(! .  Before this internship, I had never imagined I would ever come to Latin America. Brazil was one of those countries I grew up loving so much, because of my insane love for socce,r and had only gotten a taste of it through meeting Brazilians in college, including one of my closest buddies Bruno. When Bruno moved back home after college,  we never thought we would see each other again but look at us now!

Bruno( on the right), Vinicri and I on the town!

When I applied for this internship, I honestly  did not think I was going to get it. I knew I was a great candidate for it but the one thing I did not have was Portuguese. I was sure if someone else with language skills was as passionate about this position as I am I would lose it to them. Fast forward a few months later, I landed in Sao Paulo having bravely given up an offer to be in my old stomping grounds, Africa, for this novel experience in a new place . Armed with Duolingo and a “Learn Brazilian Portuguese”  audio book, I embarked on my 13 week journey in Brazil.

My first week on the job was already in the deep end of the language struggle. It was a field research week where my boss took me around Sao Paulo to conduct some market research through interviewing various stakeholders relevant to renal services in Brazil. It was a very enlightening week of meeting nephrologists, clinic administrators and patients and hearing their thoughts on how to improve the delivery of renal care in Brazil; it was all in Portuguese. My very first struggles were just trying to follow what was happening around me and trying to stay awake. My boss would be typing notes from the interviews in English in her laptop while I looked over her shoulder and tried to follow the conversation.   Even though I did not have language skills, my boss still had me at the interviews to observe and give a fresh perspective to the things that may not be in the discussion and I followed along trying to figure it what it is I should be looking out for.  By the time we got to our second week of interviews, I was armed with some vocabulary I had been amassing and a good sense of rapport with my boss for following information  such that I actually learnt a lot in the field. 

My social interactions have the more entertaining Portuguese struggles stories. 

My coworkers love to tell everyone the story of how a guy came to talk to me at a bar, and of course I masquerade as Brazilian through the first  3 sentences of exchange, with my flawless oi, tudo bem! His next words, " Voce muito Linda..."

 I replied "Não, meu nome é Nancy..."

My friend who had overheard the exchange was cackling in the background.  Turns out, Linda is one of the many Portuguese words that mean beautiful, but it is also a popular  name of a person where I come from. So while this guy was calling be beautiful, I thought he was saying my name is Linda, and I replied, no that’s not my name, is Nancy! Oops.

Then there is the story of my first date.

I am single, and an avid online dater and so are Brazilians with way more apps than I knew in the US. I guess in a city of 11 million people, you cannot have enough ways of meeting people. My first date  though, was a riveting experience. I had started texting with this one guy, in English, who within a few days asked me out to dinner. I complied and showed up on a Sunday evening at this restaurant in my neighborhood. To my dismay, my date did not speak one word of English in person! After my Portuguese vocabulary pretty much finished at tudo bem, and a handful of other phrases, I started thinking of ways of  escaping what was surely going to be a terrible date!  He sensed my unease and convinced  me to stay and it turned out to be a really sweet and “normal” date, that was conducted entirely on google translate. We chatted about normal date things, like our jobs, families and the things we like to do. He even had some good critical thoughts on healthcare in Brazil and he gave me a first glimpse into how normal people experience the massive government funded initiatives that hold up the  Brazil healthcare system.   We downed a couple of beers and laughed and spend two hours together,  all entirely on google translate.  The people sitting around us must have been thinking why these weirdos keep turn their phones to each other haha. Oh well do what you gotta do.

Then there was the time I went to my first Brazilian music party.
 

Friends on the dance floor and beyond

It came  in the form of an invitation to a country club from one of new friends,  Maiara.  She sent me  a few youtube clips to clarify she meant  Brazilian country music and I loved it! The music was very relatable and felt like salsa, except Brazilians dance to it a little different in a series of fascinating swinging moves they call  sertaneja! It made for a fun night of, a live band, caipirinhas and picking up the swing of  Brazilian girls! One thing though, except for my immediate group, noone else in that place spoke English, like I tried to chat people up to no avail. I then lost Maiara somewhere between the bathroom and the dance floor and I went into complete panic mode about my surroundings. A combination of the three caipirinhas I had enjoyed as well as not having heard one word of English in 5 hours, drove my brain into frenzy. Where was Maiara, what happened to her, what if something happened to me and I had no way of communicating it, and nobody understands me ? What if I get into a cab alone and I do not know how to communicate where my home ?  When Maiara reappeared 5 minutes later it felt like forever. The language struggle was more than real that night! 

Me and my work friends at my birthday lunch!

Over the summer I have however gotten to embrace my language struggle. Duolingo was actually a big help in filling up my vocabulary so much that I could understand what people are saying to me even if I cannot reply in full sentences. I became good at a few survival phrases, and my co-workers find in hilarious when I spit out my elementary Portuguese at random times of conversation. On the flip side, I have been a local celebrity at the office. Everyone wants to go to lunch and coffee  with me to practice their English and I am a landmark in the office for where stuff  is, ohh  my desk is two down  by the girl who does not speak any Portuguese. The biggest lesson from my language struggles have been patience, having some and appreciating that of others. Most Brazilians have been willing to help me understand things and I have had to learn to patiently learn and listen to them.  Most of all communications comes in many shapes and forms. I have gotten by with a buoyant personality,  a little Portuguese, a lot of sign language, a lot of reading body language and of course, thank God for technology, google translate cue my date! 

I cannot wait to invite myself to all the Brazilian events back at school to show off my new dancing moves and my Portuguese :)!

You are Welcome

By Puneet Goenka
(This post was typed up in Ghana two weeks ago but is being posted now)

It’s been the same drill every day, irrespective of whether I meet an influential Government official from the Ministry of Health or a community health worker at a tiny health center outside of Accra.  I sit down, make sure my phone is on silent, take out my notebook and pen, and hear the words “You are welcome” with a 5 second pause that follows.  If I took too long and fumbled to find a pen in my bag, I would hear it a second time, “You are welcome” – same tone, same patience, same warmth. 

Taking the term quite literally, Ghanaians I met didn't wait for you to be thankful to welcome you into their space.  And so even though I know a formal thank you isn’t expected or required, I’ll say it anyway.

Thanks for being so warm – literally and otherwise

Coming here from Johannesburg where winter was setting in it was good to feel the heat and humidity.  The cloudy, rainy, humid weather was perfect and was a good consolation for missing out on Bombay’s monsoon season back home.  And if the rainy weather is coupled with deliciously giant mangoes, how could I not be happy and content.

Peacocks hanging out outside the hotel

Roadside lunch

But beyond the weather, people I met in Ghana exuded a warmth that was genuine.  I was invited over to join a group of strangers at a restaurant when they realized I was dining alone.  A few Government officials didn’t shy away from putting their hand on my shoulder while chatting with me (this may seem as an invasion of personal space from a U.S. perspective, but from another perspective it signals affection, friendliness, and cooperation).  Colleagues made sure I knew about all the vegetarian food options around work so I don’t struggle to find lunch.  The kids and security guards around my apartment building got a cab for me, helped load my suitcases in the trunk, said their goodbyes and saw me off as though I were a close friend or family member.

Thanks for being so safe

Not that I am recommending it as common practice or even common sense, but my ground level apartment door would inadvertently stay unlocked every third night.  I’d step outside for something, come back in and forget to lock the door before going to bed.  That’s how safe I felt.  After safety and crime always being at the back of mind thanks to the endless warnings I got in Johannesburg, it was a great feeling to roam around freely again – not worrying if my wallet can be easily flicked or if my phone is too prominent in my pocket.

I felt safer in Accra than I have in some large U.S. cities.

Thanks for being so fun

It doesn’t matter whether you’re at the beach, waiting in the check-out line at the grocery store, or traveling on a bus – dancing just seems to be a way of life.  If you hear music, changes are extremely high that someone around you is being not-so-subtle about swinging their hips, moving their hands, or tapping their feet rhythmically.  Even though I didn’t partake in it myself, it was fun watching people be so carefree and comfortable with themselves. 

But I know saying thank you is not the Ghanaian way of doing things, so I’ll just end by saying, you are welcome. 

Slave prison/dungeon at Cape Coast

Learning how to cook Ghanaian food

Republic Day at Labadi Beach

 

On Breasts, Talking to Strangers, and Other Things My Mother Taught Me.

Julio Villasenor

Have you ever thought how cool it would be if our eyes had little cameras that could capture moments and the emotion behind them? This is something that I find myself wishing for lately. Imagine it.

Blink. The image of a five year old boy with the biggest smile waving to you when you pass by as he carries a bag full of branches bigger than him on top of his head. Blink. The joy of seeing a truck that has been bouncing you around all day being loaded with the mill necessary to make porridge. Blink. The wonder of driving through fields on the back on a bike on a night so dark yet so full of stars that it feels like the sky is a giant black snow-globe that has been pierced by thousands of tiny needles. Blink. The warm feeling of seeing a sea of little six year olds in their school uniforms run towards you to shake hands and sometimes hug your legs. Blink. The sense of peace as you watch sunrays and clouds play hide and seek behind rows of endless hills. Blink. The awkwardness of having a stranger’s breast pop out. Blink. Having another stranger pop out a breast. Blink. And a third one…

Ok. Wait. My little eye-camera wish hasn’t happened and those last blinks might need some explanation. After all, this is not that kind of blog.

As I mentioned in my last blog I have been going to Health Care Centers to understand more about the healthcare system in Rwanda, implement a small market survey and meet the women that participate in TIP’s programs. Meeting these women is always a fun experience. I especially enjoy watching how women handle and carry their babies. In Rwanda women will bend forward from the waist, balance their babies on their backs and then drape a piece of cloth over them, tie the blanket in the front and proceed with their daily lives. The final effect is like a small strapless backpack with a little doll head popping out of it. Sometimes they’ll also tie a blanket around their necks use it as a cape Superman-style to cover their babies.

I was in a HC watching the woman in front of me do this simple yet elaborate baby wrapping dance when the toddler next to her started pulling at his mother’s skirt. The mother, who was midsentence, grabbed the baby by the arm, quickly placed him on her lap and nonchalantly pulled out her breast for some baby casual dining open-air style. All of this without the slightest pause in the conversation she was having.

So what do you do in this situation? Do you politely turn the other way? Make eye contact followed by a slight “good job” nod? Stare into space? Ask how you say “bon appetite” in Kinyarwandan? Pretend something super interesting just happened in the opposite side of the room and turn around? I was tempted to go for this last option but suddenly all the children started pulling at their mothers who did the same exact thing the first one had done. No corner of the room was safe, I was cornered by bare breasted breastfeeding mothers… It was a feeding frenzy…

The only thing is, I was the only one that was freaking out. The rest of the room went on with the conversation they were having despite the fact that half of them where flashing each other. Once I realized that the skies weren’t falling and that what was going on was absolutely natural I actually started seeing the beauty in the scene and was slightly embarrassed by my initial reaction. You see, I am in Rwanda to help a business that is focused on fighting malnutrition by giving people fortified porridge, but what if not a mother’s milk is the original fortified food? What best way to fight malnutrition than by breastfeeding? And if we are really getting poetic, what best way to strengthen the bond between a mother and child?

I guess at this point I should acknowledge that my mother is a card-carrying member of La Leche League, a group dedicated to supporting breastfeeding. I should also say that my amazing wife breastfeed our kid even past the point at which it was no longer “socially cool”, which I have a feeling is now sadly around the three week mark. So, if anything, I now question when and why breastfeeding became uncool in the more “modern” world. Don’t you think it’s a little bit strange that, as a society, we are obsessed with super foods but whenever a mom super-feeds her baby people in the room get super uncomfortable?

Anyway… food for thought……

But now that we are sort of talking about families, let me tell you the quick story of how I spent father’s day this year.

The designated Sunday found me slightly hung-over (another story) walking around Nyabugogo (the taxi-van/bus station) looking for my ride home. I met a driver who recognized me and pointed me to his taxi-van. As I approached it I noticed that the vehicle was already very crammed and the only remaining seats were those in the first and second row next to the door. Not the best seats because sometimes the taxi will pick up people on the way back to Ruli, if the taxi is full (which it always is) and you are in one of the aforementioned seats, people WILL seat on you. So, not feeling up to the task of potentially being a stranger’s cushion I asked the driver if there was another taxi leaving soon. He replied in the negative and so started an exchange that was partly English, partly French, partly Kinyarwandan but mostly hand gestures the objective of which was to get me in the taxi-van.

The driver, though friendly, was adamant and so I did what any self-respecting modern day person would do: I pretended my phone rang and somehow conveyed to the driver that it was going to be an important and long call. Once the taxi-van drove off I finished my imaginary conversation and started looking for a new ride. I soon found one, mostly empty, that was waiting for passengers, so I took a seat in the corner of the very last row. While waiting for the taxi-van to fill up, which took about an hour, I had the pleasure of regretting the previous night’s beers, so when the engine came alive I had a mixture of happiness at the prospect of finally getting home and dread at the road that would get me there.

The taxi, as always, was crammed to the point at which I marveled that I wasn’t fluent in Kinyarwandan yet simply by virtue of osmosis. As I pondered these thoughts I made eye contact with a girl sitting two seats away from me who had been looking at me inquisitively. She told me her name was Leopold and asked me what I was doing in Rwanda. This sparked a small conversation about me and my family so I brought out my phone to show her pictures of my loved ones. Before I knew it the phone was taxi-van public property; as it went through different hands people started commenting on the pictures they saw and asking me more questions. The woman sitting in front of me started having some form of argument with her husband; an argument that was resolved when she grabbed my hand and, forgetting that it was still attached to my body, pulled it forward to show her husband, seated in the row in front of her, that there was a ring on it.

The rest of the ride home was a taxi-van conversation on family, marriage, porridge, kids, the economy, health and several other subjects. Everyone chimed in, everyone laughed at my broken Kinyarwandan and everyone shared something about themselves. It was dark when we made it back and as I walked home I reflected on the amazing father’s day gift I had just gotten: I had boarded a taxi full of strangers and, by sharing pictures of my family, by the time we got to Ruli I got out of a taxi full of new friends.  

Hide-and-seek

Loading our truck with the hammermill

How much life do you see in these two pictures

 

Get Outta Town - Because There's More to Life than JUST Work!

A lovely accommodation while hitching to Livingstone 

By Samantha Madden

This post is dedicated to those throughout Zambia and beyond that have brought a sense of cultural awareness to me. To those that picked me up from an intersection and gave me a lift, taken me in their village for a hot meal, and shared stories among stories (with many awkward laughs in between due to the language barriers!).  To the family in a town outside Siavonga that served me up my first plate of local nshima and enticed me to eat with my fingers, to the South African couple who let me ride in the back of their truck bed for over 250 km and wished for nothing in return, to all the babies and local children that let me run and play and act like a total kid again, to all my fellow travelers I met passing through and kept me awake on long bus rides, and mostly to this beautiful country and continent for confirming what I thought may be the truth- it’s hands down my most favorite continent I’ve visited yet. (And that’s saying a lot since I only have Antarctica left on the list!) 

Women on the way home from the market

Though we envision what our summer or internship may look like from afar, once your feet are on the ground, once you take that first breath of African air, or get in your first taxi, or have that first glimpse of children running through the streets playing with makeshift cars made out of trash, you know that what you envisioned and what you’re about to experience are two very different things.

Push-Toy made out of garbage

Look at that excitement!

Victoria Falls- Livingstone, Zambia

South Luangwa National Park

I’ll be honest. I don’t want to leave this place- at least not anytime soon. I’m mesmerized by this country and its people. I want and need to see more. I need to travel across more borders, have more thoughtful conversations with people that have come from other developed countries and settled in these stunning places, squish myself in more mini-buses between a mother, child, goat, back of rice, and sack of tomatoes, and mostly just feel alive and genuinely happy. It has now been 3 months since my last latte from Starbucks, my last pedicure, my last transaction with a credit card, my last trip to the mall, my last double chocolate chip muffin from my favorite bakery in AA and honestly… I don’t miss it!  Sure, there are nights when I miss my bed or my family or friends or would kill for a proper coffee but in reality the need for all those things seems so distant once you’re immersed in a culture like this and I’d like to hope and think and pray that I don’t forget this feeling when I get home. Oh, and last thing- Africa I will be back for you. I don’t know when or where or for how long, but I won’t forget you…ever! Thanks for the experience J Sorry for all the pictures, but I TRIED to pick out my favorites and it was just so hard!

Debt Restructuring in Mexico and Argentina - and Some Background to My Internship ....

Carlos Robles-Martinez

I have been abroad for nine weeks, two weeks in Mexico City and now I’m completing my seventh week in Buenos Aires. If you know me, and don’t know many details about the trip, you’re probably wondering, “Carlos, I thought you weren’t allowed to leave the country? What changed?”  And if you don’t know me, you’re probably wondering why anyone would ask that question.  All are fair questions.  Because of that, one of the goals of this blog is to reflect on my experiences and the research I am doing through the William Davidson Institute, and how that project allowed me to go back to my home country, Mexico, after such a long time away, and also travel to Argentina, a country I had always wanted to visit. Another goal is to shed some light on the latest immigration policies that allowed me to leave the U.S., and where they stand today.

Let’s start with a description of the trip’s purpose. As part of the Master’s in Public Policy at the Ford School, we are to complete a policy related internship or project. To that end, I applied to one of the William Davidson Institute’s fellowships.  My project is to research debt restructuring strategies used by Mexican and Argentinian multinational firms that borrowed the United States Chapter 11 law to restructure their debt after they fell under financial distress. I will talk more about the project and the findings themselves in a later blog entry.

With that in mind, I can now answer the question of how I was able to leave, and why that is a relevant question. This question is relevant because I was an undocumented immigrant. Back in 2010, my brother and I were arrested and put in a county jail for three days for having over-stayed our visas and not having documentation on us while traveling by train through New York.  We were then in risk of deportation.  After a long process, and with the help of the National Immigrant Justice Center in Chicago, we were allowed to stay in the country through Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA).  DACA is President Obama’s 2012 executive order to grant deportation relief and work authorization to undocumented immigrants who meet several requirements. 

Now, a quick clarification, I said up there that I was an undocumented immigrant. Technically, that’s true, because now I do have legal documents issued by the United States.  This puts me in a much more comfortable and safe situation than before, but DACA has many nuances. It does not let me apply for citizenship, it simply protects me from being deported, and it lets me work and live in the United States.  With it, I can keep paying income taxes, as I did before having DACA, and I am given a social security card in order to get a driver’s license, but I cannot to collect social security or receive any federal funds - like FAFSA.  This form of relief also does not allow me to leave the country for pleasure.  However, if given employment, educational, or humanitarian opportunities outside of the United States, I can apply for what the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) calls Advance Parole, to take advantage of that opportunity and not be penalized.  If I left the country for any other reason, I would not be able to return. Since my current research project is going towards completing a master’s degree, USCIS granted my Advance Parole, and I find myself writing this blog entry from a coffee shop in Buenos Aires while listening to some live Tango music. It had been eleven years since I had been outside of the United States.

Café Borges and a live Tango

Being in Argentina is by far one of the best things I have experienced, but the highlight of this trip was being back in Mexico after such a long time away. When I was fourteen and brand new to the US, I really wanted to go back home and would think about it incessantly. But after the realities of our situation settled in, I made peace with the fact that such a trip was very unlikely in any near future.  Eleven years later, I realized I had the opportunity to apply for a project that would allow me to return; I did so with caution, knowing that there was the possibility of getting Advance Parole denied.  It took about two months to get an approval, and even when I received the notice it was still hard to make sense of the feelings. I knew it meant I could finally go back, but it had been a long time since I had thought about that. I was excited to return, but I had no clue what to expect.

To keep this from getting too long, let’s fast forward to my arrival in Mexico. The first thing I noticed once there was that Mexico City is a mess!  One beautiful, beautiful mess, that although may deserve some of the bad reputation it has, does not nearly get enough credit for all the positive things it offers.  As one of the most populated cities in the world, anywhere you go, you will likely find a crowd of people.  Being there, I realized how much I missed being able to talk to everyone and ask for what I wanted just using my Spanish and not having to worry if they’d understand or not.  I missed making all the jokes I wanted with family I hadn’t seen in years.  And hearing everyone around me yelling things in Mexican Spanish, some hilarious, some gross, but all so refreshing.  One of the things I tried to do while in the U.S. was to maintain a full fluency of Spanish, which I think helped in making everything  feel so strangely familiar, even after all the years. I didn’t have to worry about anything getting lost in translation at all, and I could just focus on everything that was going on around me. Being able to walk down the street and really smell from some of the worst scents to some of the most delicious, mouthwatering ones that led you to a bakery, tacos, or a restaurant, all amazing.

Back in Mexico and eating everything within sight

I was also able to easily get used to their public transportation that, even though it is chaotic, takes you anywhere you need to be, and quickly. This level of comfort allowed me to fully enjoy this amazing city that somehow manages to maintain its roots while also being incredibly modern. There is such a rich history and so much to learn and see; from ancient ruins, to the Soumaya Museum; from street food, to some of the best restaurants in the world. I felt so fortunate to be there, and happier than I had been on a trip in a long time. While I was there, the only thing I was missing was my family, because they still have not had the chance to leave the U.S., and while they are happy for me, I know they wish they could have been there just as much as I had.

The Soumaya Museum in Mexico City

To begin closing, I don’t really want you to read this post and only take from it (aside from my love for Mexico City) that being undocumented in the United States is a really difficult experience, and have you try to relate to it. It undoubtedly is difficult. Instead, I’d rather bring your attention to the fact that there just is no real federal solution or way for “low-skilled” immigrants like my family, and their children to migrate to the U.S. legally. And when they do make it there illegally, and they lead productive and law abiding lives on after, there is no way for them to apply for a legal status, even after years of contributions to the country.  The closest we have come is DACA, which only applies to children of immigrants, but even that is at stake now.  Last February, a Texas judge issued an injunction before an expansion of the program was to take place. Two key features of the expansion were to get rid of the age cap for applicants, and also extend deportation relief to parents of U.S. born children. Since the injunction, millions of people still have to live their lives with extreme caution, tip-toeing their way to work and school every day.

With that shift in focus, I want you to be aware of what you can do. If you find yourself in a position where you can change policies or interact with people who are undocumented, please realize that you can help beyond only being aware of our issues. Institutions and employers alike need to know that the federal government often does not have institutional restrictions set at a national level. That means individual institutions can increase services for undocumented immigrants without federal permission or negative consequences. Some brief examples are: issuing private funds as scholarships, passing in-state tuition at universities, conducting professional development for human resources staff, or issuing healthcare and providing a fair wage to employees.  None of those are dictated by federal regulations, and have a huge impact on people’s lives.  And while there is no solution being put forth by the government, a change in our institutional practices can trigger a change in our mindsets, and ultimately lead to the change we have been working for.

Of ZAMs & SMAGs in Zambia

Hello my fellow WDI interns!

Hope that all of you are thoroughly enjoying your experiences thus far, wherever you may be J     As some of you may or may not know, those of us in Eastern Africa have been dealing with quite the energy crisis and as the weeks go on it seems to just get worse and worse- there are points in the week when we are without electricity and water for far over 48 hours, and while it certainly makes things more difficult for us on the project, the strain and demands that it places on the local individuals can be certainly be seen and felt by all.

This summer I was given the opportunity to work with Africare Zambia. We began work on a three year project that aims to demonstrate high-quality entrepreneurial Zambian Maternity Homes (ZaMs) and evaluate if the model is operationally and financially sustainable, thereby improving equity of maternity access care for the most vulnerable and marginalized populations in the Lundazi and Mansa Districts in Eastern Zambia.

Phase I of the project was completed late last year and with additional funding from Merck and the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, phase II was able to build upon what research and data analysis was obtained from phase I.  Maternity homes, or residential dwellings located near health facilities where women in the late stages of pregnancy can stay to await delivery and receive postpartum services have been used previously in a variety of settings as a 'geographic bridge' to overcome distance and transportation barriers that prevent women from receiving obstetric care in a timely manner. Unfortunately, implementing maternity homes tend to be small-scale, unstandardized, and ultimately failed to be responsive to community needs.
 



Preparing food in a make-shift area outside a local birth clinic (a current establishment that will be upgraded) in the Lundazi area, Eastern Province of Zambia.

The initial weeks of my summer were spent gaining an insight into the organization of Africare itself and getting myself familiar with where the project currently stood, who I would be working alongside, and what tasks I would most dedicate myself to. Certainly before I came to Zambia I had ideas and visions about what this work would look like, but truthfully once you’re on the ground it almost feels like you are a part of it all because we’re such a close group of colleagues.  Rightfully so, the IT individual can easily be connected to our financial director, who’s then tied to all of us, on the ground or not.  So, it became clear to me that though I would have certain objectives and tasks, I would become very familiar with the logistics of everyone’s part on the project very quickly.

Recently we wrapped up solidifying what exactly our ZaMs accountability structure would look like- see below.  Ideally we wanted to construct it such that it is not only sustainable in the short-term with us on the ground, but that once we depart, the oversight and management of such facilities (ZaMs) continue to operate in efficient manner.

You’ll see in the red box where I most dedicated my last month of time to:  Maternity Home Committee, ZaMs Caretaker and ZaMs Coordinator. You’ll see that the community-supported ZaMs model is accountable to the community and to the government through the Ministry of Community Development and Mother and Child Health (MCDMCH).  Additionally, the Maternity Home Committee is made up of 6-10 community-elected representatives from Neighborhood Health Committees, health facility staff, Safe Motherhood Action Groups (SMAG) members, and traditional community leaders who will make up the governing structure of each ZaMs.  Our hope is that this structure promotes government recognition of ZaMs as an integral part of the health facility.  We believe that incorporating MCDMCH and local government throughout the implementation period will in turn lead to a seamless transition to full government oversight post-project.  Long-term operational and financial sustainability is essential to the success of the ZaMs model thus much of our time is devoted to these two topics!

Women waiting outside another clinic we are going to use as a foundation for another ZaM

3 women we spent quite a bit of time with discussing things like cultural acceptability to the ZaMs, the importance of local women involvement in the project and our ideas for financial sustainability and their thoughts

Next blog post I’ll share what we’ve accomplished thus far regarding the financial sustainability initiatives this project will employ.
 

Cheers!

Posted on behalf of Samantha Madden

Beatitudes of the Disabled

Posted by Rebecca Baylor

Adapted from Beatitudes of the Aged

By: Jacqueline Colaco

Blessed are they who do not shun me

Just because I have a disability

Blessed are they whose concern for me

Goes beyond pity and charity

Blessed are they who make me feel

That I should be given an equal deal

Blessed are they who think I should be

Given a chance to develop the skills in me

Blessed are they who encourage me

To overcome the embarrassment of disability

Blessed are they who don’t hide me away

Just because I am different from they

Blessed are they who because I am blind

Don’t also think I have no mind

Blessed are they who do not balk

When I dribble all over or struggle to talk

Blessed are they who are patient and kind

Knowing it takes time to work things in my mind

Blessed are they who looked away

When I was clumsy at mealtime today

Blessed are they who put themselves out

To include me too in what they’re about

Blessed are they who give me way (in a queue)

Knowing I can’t stand as long as they

Blessed are they with a cheery smile

Who stopped to chat for a little while

Blessed are they who see in me

A person of WORTH & ABILITY

Posted on behalf of Rebecca Baylor.