"Vulnerable Children" Part I

I noticed my first day at CHETI, the school of my placement, a board entitled "Vulnerable Children" at the C4 center. "What is this?" I asked Zuma, the head of our school. I mean it when I say that every child at Cheti is vulnerable, but I suppose it's true that there are a few who just might not stand a chance if Zuma weren't there to guide them. Zuma does a remarkable job of researching the students' home life on top of EVERYTHING else he does and that is just one piece of what makes him such a hero in my eyes. "This is a list of children who I feel need my extra attention and support," he says. What he really means is, these are children he tries to support all by himself on top of having his own children and family! Blows my mind. I also commend Zuma on his research of students' home life because as he seeks help for them, he makes sure that that the troubling stories are indeed true. For example, there were several days we walked from school to the child's home to speak to the guardian, or neighbors if the child had no guardian, to find out what was really going on. Yes, it's true, sometimes people will lie to get some assistance, but this is one reason I value Zuma so much - his honesty in telling me that. Wouldn't you know... each troubling story we heard was, indeed, true as we did our research into each child's home. It's heartbreaking, yet wonderful in the fact that the reality can be let out so these kids can get some help. To think of it from the other end though, I know there are SO many stories that aren't told and that MOST of these children are probably just as vulnerable. Eh... it's an aching in my heart and my mind, but we'll have to help here one step at a time.

Zuma went through some of the stories of what makes these children so vulnerable with me and though I tried to be attentive, I couldn't hold back the tears. I think I cried every day in Africa, sometimes from heartbreak, and sometimes from sheer euphoria and gratitude for what was in front of me.

Here is just ONE interview done with Zuma. Almost every day someone will come in begging for his help. (The mother has died, the father has left them, the grandmother is old and ill and cannot look after them anymore. They cannot afford education or food. But they deserve what any child deserves in life!). Take a look.


Zuma agreed to fund their education, but as you saw from just ONE of his lists above, he cannot do this for very long. They need a sponsor to continue schooling. You can help me feed them as I will be making a payment soon, or help fund their education.

And there's more. This is Doreen. Doreen is, I'd like to say, about 4 or 5 years old, maybe? She attended Cheti in prior years and I know this because another volunteer who had been there for several months recognized her when we were walking through the slum one day. "Doreen! Why aren't you at school??" she asked her. This volunteer expressed her upset to Zuma and not seeing Doreen in school anymore. "Let's get to her home," Zuma said.

The next day we walked through stony paths, smelling of burning corn until we reached a weak tin door. "Allo?" Zuma said. We walked in and there was little Doreen -- all smiles to see that her previous teacher had come for her. Turns out this was Doreen's grandmother's home. "Where is your mother?" Zuma asked...

I will never forget this moment til the day I die. Her mother, only 25 years old, just two years older than I, came out from one corner of the two room home, and could hardly move... Doreen was no longer in school because her mother was sick.

She slowly sat down on a dusty couch as she explained that she could no longer afford to send Doreen to school. Her voice was so meek; I could see she was in great pain; each sentence was a mountain for her to climb. "What has happened?" Zuma asked her in Swahili. She began as Zuma translated for us...

Her stomach was wrapped up in a cloth because it was not. quite. closed from a "surgery" she had received. No wonder this poor young woman could not move! We then learned that Doreen's father had left them months prior, only to return to steal all of their money and leave again. In the process, he claimed that the mother had wronged him and had her put in jail. She was innocent. She is ill.

Doreen was forced to leave school. But she is SO SMART and hard working and loving and alive. "No. You shall come back to school," Zuma said. "We shall somehow pay for your education." I think of Zuma. I think of Doreen. I think of her mother. And I know that anything in life is possible, especially when we come together. We have so much to be thankful for.

Though we weren't sure at that moment how she would be taken care of, it turns out two volunteers in their early 20's, from opposite ends of the earth, came together and are now funding her education for the next several years. THAT is what it's all about. THAT is going to change her future FOREVER. Her education will give her the proper chance at life which she deserves! She can strive for a respectable job and understanding of how much capability she has in her country, in the world!

But what of her mother? ... it is another story that haunts me often. I don't know how she is anymore... I wish I did and pray for her often. How can it be that she is only 25 and can already be seen as a "too late" situation? I asked her if there was anything we could give her aside from Doreen. "Fruit," she said with a half smile. Several volunteers brought her fruit in the days to follow.

There are MANY others who need assistance. I am sending a payment for food to these schools by April 20. Would you like to put in a small donation? The donations go directly from me to Zuma so I know it is done right.

Could this little one be any more beautiful?

Thank you for being here and God bless. YOU can change a life FOREVER just by slightly altering your own! ;) Would you like to help?

Contact me if you'd like to make a donation:

britni.tozzi@gmail.com

Check back soon!

Welcome to CHETI

A day or two after my arrival in Africa, I learned I would be placed at a school outside the town of Arusha. CHETI, it is called. "CHETI. What does it mean?" I thought, and "How old are the children?" I couldn't WAIT to get started with the little buggers, but I knew it was important to prepare for their age and level of understanding. "They mainly range from 3-7," I was told. I smiled with excitement and anticipation inside, not just because I love children, but also because I knew this would be a challenge - for them and for me - for they would not know as much English as some of the other locals. I frantically tried to learn as much Swahili as possible and as mentioned before, I had wonderfully encouraging people eager to help.
I rose the next morning, ready to be picked up at home by the head of the school. Zuma, is his name. One of the most remarkable people I've ever met. Even as I say his name now, I feel empowered and strengthened. The doors opened and there was Zuma... beaming with one of the most infectious, enlightening smiles I have ever seen. He apologized for not having proper English (his English is excellent) and I responded by telling him he can't apologize again until I use proper Swahili! "No, no! I want to know better English. I need to know better English," he said as he grabbed hold of my arm and hand, leading me through town to the dala dalas. In America, we have a hard enough time bumping shoulders with someone or getting too far into their "personal space". Now, I had a total stranger, a beautiful soul grabbing hold of my hand and anxiously pulling me through town. I loved every moment of it. It was a comforting invasion. Contradicting? Maybe. But something I could argue we all desperately need.

"There are 4 centers to CHETI," he explained. "I shall take you to all."

"What does CHETI stand for?" I asked. "CHETI." He smiled. "Children Health Education Team Inspiration."

I couldn't think of five better reasons for having come there.

Two dala dalas later and a long walk down a dirty, muddy road, I turned the corner through a rusty painted gate and heard the most beautiful voices I've ever known. The children...

"Come! We cannot waste a minute," said Zuma. He asked me to hop onto the back of his motorbike so he could take me out to the farthest CHETI center... and now I know why... it is far. The centers of CHETI are called C1, C2, C3 and C4. "We shall go to C4," he explained.

We drove a bumpy ride through muddy trails and rocky hills until we reached C4.

Where. Do. These. Kids. Come. From. ... that was all I could think to myself.
The school is in the middle of nowhere. Yes... this is school...And I walked into a classroom to find this...


A child was teaching the class. They could not yet find a teacher. Still, the children straggle along to school. They want to learn. They have such hope and potential, yet there is a lack of resources, supplies; there is a lack of trustworthy and determined teachers. Why? ... I will explain in posts to come.
Their dirt filled shoes...

They don't have lunch...If they break for lunch, they go home and most likely don't come back. If they do come back, it is likely that they didn't eat when home. Why? They have no food there...

Their "blackboards"... Pieces of wood that can't really be erased OR boards of wood which serve as the "walls" of their classroom.

Their supplies? A single pencil they take from a bucket. They are ALWAYS broken; NEVER sharpened. The children spend half the class begging to have them sharpened. There are no erasers. Perhaps one or two per class. No books. Each child has ONE booklet of blank paper. When they run out, that's it. They must sit and watch for the next few weeks or months until they get another... so frustrating. Although some centers have a few more supplies, it is pretty similar within C1 through C4. The biggest frustration is the lack of food...

If they do not eat, they have no energy. If they have no energy, they cannot retain anything. But they want to learn. Why must we always complain when we have so much. They are so malnourished...






























This time around, words just won't suffice for me. I'm praying these images can help you see. I'd spent the first weekend with so many excited children in the streets, running; laughing; playing. But when I came to C4... I genuinely had to work to get these kids to smile; resorting to tickling; tossing them; everything I could think of. These children are just plain hungry. I look at them and see an old soul when I ought to be seeing a vibrant, vivacious child... but they've experienced more than I'll ever know... We are blessed with bountiful opportunities. They need us. I'm supporting these children, but I cannot do it on my own. A few dollars a day, a week, a month can help me to feed them for months. A little can go such a long way! Can you please help?

I'll show you how. Contact me: britni.tozzi@gmail.com

Thank you for being here... You are a blessing. Never underestimate what you are capable of doing. More to come soon.

There Will Be Blood

Thank you for being here...

The few days before I began working at my placement in Arusha, I took some time to explore the town and grow comfortable with finding my way around. This was a wonderful opportunity to understand the culture and lifestyle as well as the Tanzanian law and how things are run. It's difficult to find a proper formality to what the laws are because we have to understand what is more socially acceptable for them and also the open awareness of corruption. Please understand that I chose Tanzania for this first mission because it has a history of being peaceful and I do believe it is, but as with many African countries, there is, indeed, corruption.
I enjoyed a nice lunch in town one day with another volunteer and we decided to walk home, but in the process of doing so, a dala dala backed straight into us. (If you don't know what a dala dala is, please refer to my last post). The traffic in Arusha is horrendous! There are no lane dividers painted on the road and if there are they are very hard to see; no one pays any attention to them. There are cars, buses, bicycles, motorbikes, dogs, goats, people. It is acceptable to pass the person in front of you for whatever reason they deem necessary, so you almost always see a car/bus coming at you head on before it scarcely squeezes its way back into traffic; Matrix style; you think I'm kidding, eh? The volunteers always said that out of all the ways for one of us to go in Africa, it'd probably be from getting hit in traffic. This dala dala driver either did not pay attention or simply did not care who was behind him and hit the gas in reverse, too hard. I jumped out of the way, as did my friend and a couple other locals. He drove off into the intersection to go about his way, laughing. We stood there in shock and I realized that a police officer standing nearby had seen it all.

Several people started shouting and complaining and I realized this would not go unsettled. The tall, robust officer dressed in his crisp white uniform and hat slowly made his way over to that dala dala; I could see the tension in his body like a cat ready to pounce. In fact, I could feel it. "Okay. How do they deal with this here?" I thought. "Warning; ticket?" He banged on the window as the driver realized he'd been caught. After an eying down like I have never seen before, the officer yanked, and I mean yanked the driver out of that vehicle. He pulled him into the center of the intersection and after very few words exchanged in Swahili, he beat him. I've never seen anything like it. Slapping and punching him in the head. The driver was down on his knees begging the officer to stop.

"Mzungu!" said the officer pointing over to us. Mzungu means "white person" and you will hear this about fifty times a day walking down the street (it is not derogatory, rather, it's friendly). "You almost hit them!" he shouted in Swahili. Then the officer motioned for me and the other locals to come over and join the scolding.

"Acha. Acha. Hapana, hapana asante" I told the officer (Stop. Stop. No, no, thank you). I wanted no part of it. But that is how things are dealt with there - the physical aggression is seen as much more acceptable and warranted. And so I understood it when I would later hear the teachers at school telling the children they will beat them if they misbehave. Those children see instances like that of the officer every day, often in their homes, and so they know it means business.

The next day, my final day before beginning at placement, a couple of volunteers and I rented motorbikes to travel to the town of Moshi ("Smoke" in Swahili).
The ride was, in a word, beautiful. The land is so vast and open; green hills stretching for miles, baobab trees, mountains, goats, children herding animals, women walking along the side of the road carrying food and supplies...

Heaven on earth. And midway into our journey...

We were stopped by the police.

"Identification, please" he says. Well, I'd been instructed never to take my passport or ID out with me because if I lose it in the country, it will be very difficult to get home. No problem, the driver has got his.... Well... no, he was sure he had it, but accidentally left it back at the volunteer house. Admittedly not a smart move. "Where are you going? What's in your bags?" the officer questioned. I can't explain it, but you can just feel that they want something else from you. Money? Who knows. It's an awful feeling. "Well... now you are to be punished," he said. "I will punish you. Get off the bike."
Alright... after everything I'd seen with the dala dala driver, you can only imagine what was going through my head. I think I had about 95 talks with God in a matter of 30 seconds. I'm in a country where my own laws mean nothing and I mean it when I say that you just instinctively feel there are ulterior motives. The other volunteer kept trying to explain the situation and asked to be let go. "No" the officer said. "Well, what is the punishment?" we asked. He just stared. Realistically, the punishment was whatever he felt like and that is a terrible feeling. You feel no justice to anything.
After my 95 talks with God in 30 seconds and putting my heart back into my chest, I went back to the truth of the situation and tried to reason with myself that this should not be a big issue. "We're volunteering," I said and allowed the other to explain where he'd been volunteering for the past few months, etc. We finally saw a change in the officers eyes and he eventually let us go.
The truth is, this officer just more than likely wanted money. "They've taken money from us before," another volunteer explained, and that's where corruption comes in. After stepping away from the situation, I know he would not have physically harmed us because the fact is, they know we're there to volunteer and are also helping their economy. I do not think this is a bad man and I do believe the Tanzanian police are good in their country, but you just have to realize that it's accepted, they will take advantage of you and take your money. Granted, I'm sure things like this and that of the beating have happened here in the U.S., but I can confidently say this particular type of corruption happens all the time over there. Must be honest, maybe the most scared I've ever been.

More photos of the journey to Moshi...


A raw appreciation for one another and the earth.


This beautiful boy flagged us down on the way back. Children are always waving with excitement and hope, but I'm thankful we could stop for this child. "Pesa??" he asked (Money?). "Hapana. Pole sana" I told him (No, I'm very sorry). "Pen? Pen?!" he said in Swahili, staring into my backpack. "Yes, take this pen" I told him. "There!!" he pointed to another I didn't even know I had. "Yes, please take." I gave him whatever I had. "Book?" he asked in Swahili. "No books... pole sana." I said with regret. Again, he begged, "..books??" "No, I don't have any"... although I wish more than anything I had.

I'd never seen someone longing for something so bad... but, it would not be the first time on this trip I'd see a longing in someone's eyes so deep, so immense... the next time I saw it, I will explain for you later... It's.. it's hard. I gave him whatever I had on me at that moment and knew it would not be enough to sustain... but if it's at least a piece of life, a piece of hope, a piece of will for him... then yeah, I'll start there. We'll start there. And one may think, well where the hell does that "piece of hope" or "piece of life" get you?

I will show you... I will show you in posts to come... of real life heroes; angels on earth. Those who make every waking moment more meaningful, poignant; important. You will see... we will see... I'm with you the whole way.

Thanks for being here...

Special thanks to Gino Pennacchio.