Who cries for an orphan? When tears are streaming down his face, who will tell him that everything will be okay? When he stumbles and falls, who will pick him up, dust him off and put him back on track? When he succeeds, who does he have to share his successes?

Orphan. A simple word whose meaning  can never truly be summed up. Faraja, like many other children’s homes throughout the world has taken on the role of primary caregiver to children who have never had role models. And in what should be the most dreary and depressing places in the world, hope springs eternal.

My time at Faraja has been a rollercoaster of emotion. I have had countless experiences that I will never forget, some I will treasure and some I will be unable to forget regardless of how hard I try.  The time I have spent here has been a swinging pendulum of feelings.  The days are filled with physically demanding labor in the morning and with mind-numbing work on grant proposals and fundraising in the afternoon. You feel like no matter what you do you can never make a difference. You lay in bed at night, restless, unable to sleep, filled with uncontrollable unease and helplessness.  Even if you help these kids there are more, in Ngong, in Chicago, spread across cities and continents that go unnoticed and unhelped… but you have to try. You wake up and resume work but your hardest efforts are washed away like a sandcastle on the beach, as a wave formed from a child’s tears, crash upon your shore. She is crying because the house can’t afford to feed her lunch and you are devastated because no matter how hard you try, it’s just not good enough. As quickly as the tears formed in her eyes, fortunes can change. A donation, an email response, a conversation sparks a new lead and suddenly things look up. The next day is filled with the simple joys and small victories-- the tears have turned to play and laughter.  From chasing chickens who have escaped the pen with Kepha to eating githeri that I made, with kids-- who appreciate it no matter how poorly I make it-- the feeling of helplessness dissipates and every little decisions seems to be a life altering action in the lives of these children.

        I have become so attached to this place that my impending departure feels premature.  I feel at home in a house that is the polar opposite of the one I was raised in. I am now referred to as “kaka Ben” which means “brother Ben”, by a family that I have almost nothing in common with. I’m here to help--that is, and always will be the case-- but every passing day it feels less and less like I came to volunteer and more and more like I am doing my part to make the machine that is Faraja, run. It has become a family unit for me and their success is my success and their stumbling blocks are mine. I have no idea how I am going to say goodbye. But I know that eventually I will have to. For now, I’m just going to continue soaking up every second.