Crossing the Field (Penina Laker)

On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand;
All other ground is sinking sand,
All other ground is sinking sand.

I have found myself singing or humming to the tune of this hymn just about every day for the last several weeks. There’s something very reassuring about that powerful reminder of Christ being a constant solid rock on whom we can place our hope, especially in such uncertain times. 

It’s a reminder I desperately need. Since the beginning of March, when it finally started to look like the spread of the coronavirus was not going to slow down and we were asked to nimbly adapt our courses for online teaching, I focused all my energy into making this transition as smooth as possible for my students. With each passing week, I saw them go through the motions: from wrestling with the acceptance of this new normal to finally letting go and making the most of it.

Last week, we celebrated the graduation of the class of 2020 with a series of virtual Recognition Ceremonies. At one of those ceremonies, I was chosen to be the faculty undergraduate speaker. Nothing I could say, I knew, would possibly lessen the pain, frustration, and disappointment they had endured over the past few weeks. So instead of focusing on the current pandemic, I wanted to tell them about another outbreak I had lived through, a time of suffering and death, and of what came after.

I was born and raised in Kampala, Uganda, located on the Eastern part of the African continent. My memory of growing up in Uganda was mostly a happy one. In fact, some of my fondest memories revolve around the extended family, community and friends with whom I grew up and navigated life. However, like many developing nations, we were not without our fair share of trials. Among such were sporadic outbreaks of infectious diseases like cholera. Even though they were usually localized to specific parts of the country, sometimes they could result in prolonged, widespread epidemics.

Between the end of 1997 and beginning of 1998, we had a severe outbreak of cholera that ravaged multiple towns. Because of how fast the disease exploded, the country’s National Referral Hospital—which was the main center for the treatment and isolation of patients—became quickly overwhelmed and consequently led the Ministry of Health to set up a make-shift emergency field hospital in a nearby gathering space. This particular green space was our neighborhood’s community park. Prior to this catastrophe, I had enjoyed so many moments attending local sporting events, or hanging out with family and friends in that park. I walked through this field on the way to the local market, and it was the main landmark we used to direct people to our house.

Toward the end of the year 1997, everything seemed to change overnight. That beloved park of mine became associated with illness, pain, suffering, and even death. All anyone saw of the field were dozens upon dozens of white tents set up to accommodate the sick, barricades and signage hung high to keep people out. My usual set route to the market had been erased.

Month after month, things continued to look grim. People were encouraged to limit non-essential interactions outside their immediate family. The community became paranoid of human contact. We obsessed over anything we ate and drank. And still the number of lives lost continued to rise. Then, in the earlier months of 1998, we started to see fewer cases and more recoveries—and we embarked on a new journey toward healing.

Life didn’t immediately return to business as usual. It took patience and resilience for our community to reimagine and forge new experiences, including new experiences with our shared field. We began the long, hard process of redeeming this once beloved space now associated with so much pain and suffering. 

I was a child then, eleven years old, and I remember that it took me a very long time to physically walk through that field again. In fact, I remember making multiple attempts and just being too fearful to take that first step. It was astonishing to me as a child that a space which held so many profound memories of joy and happiness could feel this different and shaken. When I eventually mustered the courage to walk through that field, I couldn’t help but feel grateful to be alive: so many were not. So many would never play in that space again. 

The cholera outbreak of 1997-1998 was one of my earliest memories witnessing the people in my family and community navigating fear and embracing change during times of uncertainty, coming through heartache and healing.

Now uncertainty has come again. None of us could have been prepared for the consequences of this pandemic or the changes it has rendered in our lives. It’s normal that we might feel a sense of fear or panic for the unknown, but we also have something far greater to stand on—something secure, something that cannot be shaken. I have seen the other side of an outbreak. I have crossed an open field I once felt too afraid to enter. And I know we have a hope with us even now that is built on nothing less than Jesus Christ, our solid rock.

Penina Laker is a Carver Project faculty fellow and assistant professor in the Sam Fox School of Design and Visual Arts at Washington University in St. Louis. 

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