The past 72 hours have been a whirlwind. Thursday lunchtime had us delivering our final presentation to the IRD and SERASI staff; this thirty-minute PowerPoint had people laughing at Kerr’s dancing skills, and listening to not only our adventures over the last 8 weeks but also our contributions and confidence in these development and peace building programs. By 4pm we were leaving the office, kissing and hugging our colleagues and our friends, and by ten o’clock that evening we were on the plane headed back to the United States. We were feeling excited about our return but also a little sad to leave Indonesia since our internship had been such a great experience.

After 36 hours of travel, we arrived at Dulles airport in DC exhausted and ready to have an American meal and cold beer. We were in the midst of complaining about how expensive this airport meal would cost, when we saw the TV. CNN was reporting on two suicide bombings in Jakarta, Indonesia; two “luxury American hotels” had been bombed. Who… Where… and Why… were racing through our heads. We sat, hands shaking and jaws dropped watching the news. We could not believe what we were seeing; those dining around us were barely fazed. Unfortunately, suicide bombings are somewhat expected stories in contemporary world news; however, this bombing was in an area of Jakarta we now know well and in hotels we drove past many times during our stays in Jakarta.

As we sat in a crowded airport restaurant craning our necks and straining our eyes to try to learn more details about the situation in Indonesia, the man at the table beside us asked us if we were OK. His question of concern was immediately followed by a statement on how much all Muslims hate America.  He shared some “facts” about Indonesia—nearly all of which were misinformed, and reflected the general American lack of information about the variety and complexity of Islam. It also couldn’t be further from the Indonesia we experienced on the ground. His view of the country was what he could gather from the 45-second news clips replaying the most recent bombings and those in Bali from several years ago. To him, Indonesia was a Western-hating, extremist-led theocracy. We’d like to believe that this man and his wife were outliers in their views on Indonesia; however, we suspect that they are probably closer to the general American understanding than we would like for them to be.

Our time in Indonesia could not have been more positive. Everywhere we went ,we were greeted with open arms and open minds. All people—young and old, wealthy and poor, Christian and Islamic—were happy to meet us and share stories of hope and peace. Teachers longed to learn about the American school system so that they could develop programs to better serve their students. Local community organizations encouraged us to share ideas and thoughts with them to help form stronger programs.  We even met with multiple Islamic religious leaders who, being aware of our theological training and Christian beliefs, greeted us with blessings instead of curses. This is the Indonesia we know, and will continue to describe. It is at times like this in the face of violence, that Christians and Muslims need to stand together to advocate for peace and an inter-religious co-existence.

Having already seen detailed designs, it was exciting to finally arrive in Yogya during my sixth week in Indonesia; however, when I arrived I learned that the design for the latrines had been altered due to several new issues. The first problem was the unexpectedly high cost of drilling wells for the water supply systems. Although it was known that the village’s existing wells needed to be replaced, no one expected that the new wells would need to be nearly four times as deep as the existing ones. This additional depth, in combination with the type of rock discovered, significantly increased the cost of the project. These water supply systems were given priority, so something else had to go.

That something else was the latrines. Some villages lost their latrines altogether and the rest were reduced to half of their original size. Now, if it would build a latrine at all, each village would only have two mandi. The reduction in number was a problem in itself, but the sponsor of this particular project made an additional change; it required that for every mandi installed there must also be a toilet installed for the disabled. On paper, this seems to be a perfectly reasonable requirement, and to a Western eye the sit-down toilet and shower look to be a marked improvement to a mandi; however, a visit to the village gives a different perception.

I was able to visit Jambon sub-village for a negotiation meeting over its water supply system. The drive to Jambon sub-village begins with a drive of about half an hour from Yogya on large well paved roads. At that point, a turn between two small buildings reveals a small and unmarked road. The single track dirt road winds through several sub-villages and uphill for a few kilometers or so. This road is littered with the remains of past development projects, which stand unused and in disrepair. Latrines with rotting wooden support and tattered blue tarp walls dominate the picture. Jambon sits above and behind these previous projects and displays a striking absence of development help. The negotiation meeting I attended with Jambon sub-village was required due to the extremely high cost of drilling new wells; the budget appointed for the project was no longer sufficient to supply water to the entire village, so IRD was asking the village to come up with money or in-kind contributions to make up the difference. Although village participation is a part of IRD projects, this isn’t the way it typically works.

The sub-villages chosen for this project are all similar to Jambon in that they were selected because they have not received previous help with their infrastructure from outside agencies. They have not received this help because they are some of the more difficult villages to reach and therefore in which to work. Jambon is located on the side of three different large hills, and once one leaves the main single track dirt road, the paths around the sub-village are wide enough only to accommodate motorcycles. Many of these small paths are built on a grade of no less than 20%. Although this doesn’t cause significant problems when driving a motorcycle or walking around the village, it would cause significant problems for anyone who is disabled; transportation around the village for them would be nearly impossible. Luckily, none of these sub-villages have individuals with physical disabilities that prevent them from getting around or from using a mandi. This means that these villages will be receiving a toilet intended for people who don’t currently exist in that setting, but of course it could help someone in the future. However, under the current conditions a toilet stall designed for a disabled individual may not have such positive benefits. The villagers are skeptical of the Western-style toilet in the disabled stall and voice significant opposition to the idea; therefore, this modern addition practically reduces the number of new latrines installed to one. However, although the villagers’ input was considered in many aspects of the project, the sponsor was unwilling to yield in this case. The stalls intended for the disabled were non-negotiable. Therefore, each village will only have one mandi and one toilet for the disabled.

As wonderful as the disabled toilet looked on paper, and as impractical as it initially looked on the ground, there are convincing arguments for both sides. At some point, someone introduced the mandi to Indonesia, replacing muddy holes and city sewers as the bathrooms of choice. Introducing new hygienic ideas to traditional cultures can be a wonderful idea. But at some point, I wonder if new introductions stop helping to improve hygiene, or quality of life, and simply begin to try to impose a Western way of life. Is this one of those examples? I don’t know. If some members of these communities begin to use the disabled toilet, it could significantly improve the quality of life for those with disabilities or those infirmed by old age; however, if the communities maintain their current skepticism and disapproval, they are instead left with a single latrine for the entire sub-village.

The IRD team actively worked to make the best of the situation, but budget constraints and imposed restrictions tied their hands in many ways. They could decrease the quality of the latrines to more reflect those falling apart in the sub-villages neighboring Jambon, they could shorten the water supply lines and leave some houses out of the project, or they could look for other options that save money but sacrifice quality or quantity. Is quantity the only measure of success? Is one latrine better than none? Is one usable latrine that lasts better than four that fall apart? Does using Western ideas and building codes make sense in a non-Western society? I don’t have answers to any of these questions, but over the last few weeks I’ve become more aware of how important they are to the development world and how the answers to these questions are one of the key differences in the way that different NGOs conduct business.

In studying theology, students gain a rapidly increasing ability to quote our favorite scholars or verses from the Bible, but it is possible to overlook how those words and opinions work on the ground. It’s easy to make decisions from our classrooms and offices and think we know how it will work. It’s easy to think that a western toilet intended for increasing accessibility to latrine facilities for the disabled is doing a real service for the community, especially when one has never visited the site. It’s easy to think that we know how to work between religious groups when we have never actually sat at a table with those of different religions. It’s easy to preach our favorite parable when the majority of our experience is in an air-conditioned classroom in a new multi-million dollar building.

Luckily, Candler works hard to make these decisions harder for its students by sending us into the world.  Through experiences like this internship with IRD and certainly through the Contextual Education program, Candler is actively engaging its students with the world. It will also be important to create an attitude of continued worldly involvement for its students as we leave the CST building and for faculty as they continue to teach in it. The easy decision is not always the best one; well-informed decisions that take into account many opinions and views may take more time and energy, but it seems likely that they have a better chance for making lasting posit

Though my time in Indonesia has been great, there are a few amenities and luxuries that I am certainly looking forward to upon my return to the States. For starters, I can’t wait to wash and dry my clothes. For the past two months my clothes have been hand washed and line dried; oh, to wear clothes that are still warm from the dryer! I am also looking forward to driving my jeep; I have enjoyed being driven around while in Indonesia and have felt somewhat like a celebrity, but having the freedom to go wherever and whenever I want will be nice. I am also looking forward to air-popped popcorn, a staple in my diet that I have not had for 9 weeks. I also have a new-found appreciation for restrooms that come stocked with paper, soap and running water. Sadly, I will not miss the mandi squat toilet, or the pail of water supplied to wash my hands.

In addition to my reflection about the differences of food, customs, and amenities, I am sure that once I return to the US and step back from this immersion experience, I will begin to make several other observations about these two countries, including ideas about family, community, and religion. There are several observations that already stand out, one of which is gender roles. The following are a few of my observations and comments about how gender roles seem to differ from the roles to which I am accustomed.

1. Men are always holding babies. Whether it is in the street or on their front porch when families are together, dads and grandpas seem to be in charge of holding, cuddling, and entertaining babies.
2. On Indonesian domestic flights, women are not allowed to sit in the exit rows until they prove that they are big enough and strong enough to open the door.
3. At concerts in Indonesia it is the young men and boys who are on the verge of hysteria, who scream, wave, and sing along with the artists.
4. Pink is not just for little girls’ clothes and popped-collared polo shirts, but also sported by men and women alike with pink cell phones, cameras, and motorcycle helmets.
5. In Indonesia women who want to receive a degree in architecture are very rare, maybe one in 50. From my experience in architecture school, the number of women was closer to 10 or 20 out of 50.
6. Indonesia has already had a female president, and though she did not win, this same woman ran again in the past election.

To me it is really interesting how different countries’ ideas about gender and gender roles change and develop in different ways. As we work on relief and development projects all over the world, it is imperative that we understand not only our own perspective on the world, but also take the time to understand the context in which we work.

Jason and I finally got a chance to visit the Black Sea last week—we still had to work, but we had the weekend off to enjoy the beachside resort of Batumi. We have been really working like crazy people to help get a plan ready; for the uninitiated, this helps NGOs (and private businesses as well) prepare for the Request for Applications that is published by USAID. Very large sums of money are at stake, and the competition can be fierce. Often a proposal writer has an advantage if she can get agreement that her ideas will be supported by the government in question.

Thinking this through, I decided that the very best prospect for support for an RFP would be the President himself. President Mikheil Saakashvili, that is. I knew I had to start small, though, so I started out by meeting with my neighborhood green grocer. She didn’t speak English, so I moved on.

Next I started interviewing dozens of small NGOs to find out how to get in to talk with Misha. They were not very encouraging. I refused to give up, so I asked myself who else I should ask, and I thought maybe, just maybe, Misha hangs out with the Big International NGOs. I went to each and every one of them in Tbilisi, and if you know anything about this city, you know that it is a testimony to both my determination and my street smarts. But still, no one could tell me how to find the Big Guy. So I moved on.

I thought to myself, perhaps I am approaching this the wrong way. I went to the local expat watering hole, which happens to be a very snappy hotel bar, and walked up to the first person I saw. He turned out to be some sort of consultant for USAID. I was elated! The U.S. has given Misha literally millions upon millions of dollars to turn Georgia into a democracy, with a transparent government and fair elections. Surely this guy could get me in.

I was thwarted again. As it turns out, our friend Misha had other things in mind for all of that money, and now USAID is back in Georgia to fund projects that are meant to help the people get a hold of that slippery democracy thing, and they weren’t exactly big on Misha. Alas, it was time to move on.

Rethinking the entire project yet one more time, I wondered if I went and spoke with the permanent protesters who have “cells” that are blocking access to the parliament building and the executive offices, they might have a better idea of how to get to the Pres. Then I watched on the opposition party news channel (that only reaches about 25% of Tbilisi—and none of the rest of Georgia), about how some folks over there at the cells were getting beaten and kidnapped by mysterious assailants. I moved on.

The light bulb went on! I would go try to see a governor—Misha appoints them because the people aren’t as smart as he is—and I finally felt the first thrill of success. I didn’t get the governor, but I did get the deputy governor of youth and sport. I figured everyone likes youth and sport. Surely she knows Misha and would give him a call for me. Not only that, but in the first five minutes of our meeting, she explained how the entire government of Georgia is so concerned about its citizens and their rights, they have a total open door policy! All I had to do was find Misha’s door! I moved on.

All of my excitement faded when I realized that my time here in Georgia was short, and absolutely no one seemed to know where to find Misha’s door. The vacation weekend to Batumi seemed the only way to recharge myself so that I could carry on until my last moment in Georgia, to find Misha’s open door.

When I got to my little hotel, I noticed that there seemed to be a big hubbub going on. Police cars shouting through loud speakers, guys walking around with batons, streets blocked off, and all right next door to where I was staying. The focus of this display was surrounding the nicest, newest, most expensive hotel in Georgia, in the best resort city.

I felt a funny feeling in my stomach. I asked my interpreter what was up with all that fire power, and she said, “Oh that’s just Misha—he comes here all the time to hang out at the beach.” His door! I ran out to the street and headed for the huge hotel. Several police cars suddenly appeared in front of me, and started shouting in Georgian on their loud speakers. I asked my interpreter what they were saying to me. She said, “They are shouting that you had better move on.”

It seemed I had learned a very important lesson: sometimes we just need to do the real work, and have faith that the right door will always open.

I take things like this in stride here in Mozambique, though. It’s hard to have a bad-hair-day or a bad any-kind-of-day in this place. As a whole, the country (minus its beauty salons) really is magical. It’s the kind of place everyone should venture to at least once in their lifetime. In particular, Mozambique captivates me because I’m fascinated by the work that’s being done here, the people around me who are rebuilding a war-prone, land-mined locale into a country of relative cooperation. Since being here, I’ve seen abandoned HIV/AIDS patients get the care they need, witnessed a program that puts women at the forefront of economic development, and documented unlikely collaboration between conservative sects of Christianity and African traditional healers. In short, I’ve seen theology in action. Only, it’s the kind of theology that’s difficult to fully grasp inside a classroom; it’s the lived issues that complicate what a person previously took for granted.

In my case as a student who studies religious-based peacebuilding, I no longer see peacebuilding as primarily policy oriented. Instead, I now gravitate to on-the-ground scenarios that are an integral part of the development process. In particular, I’m interested in the difference that my particular denomination (the UMC) can make in this area. I see the need for change all around me, I imagine the positive developments that can occur.

As my time in this country draws to a close, I’m invigorated by the possibility that we all have in discovering places where theology can be put to practice, where preconceived perceptions can be complicated, and where ideas can be created anew. I hope that we all find these places in our ministries.

Now, don’t get me wrong: The people I’ve met here in Mozambique can’t be compared with those that Kapuscinski saw in Ethiopia. He was living in Ethiopia during a time of famine. I’m merely visiting Mozambique in a time of relative plenty. In reading the following, please don’t interpret my words to be melodramatically linking the state of affairs in these two countries in any way. However, what I do feel to be similar is the reaction that I sometimes have here. A few days ago, I sat eating at an outdoor diner waiting on a ham and cheese sandwich when a blind man and his seven-year-old son came by my table begging for food and money. Their clothes were tattered, their appearance ragged, and their demeanor depressed. Just as Kapuscinski says, such a sight makes a person “not know what to do with oneself” as you observe it over your full plate of lunch. However, creating even more inward confusion and a sense of not knowing how to behave is having the knowledge that this sight is common here. This father and son team waits outside this restaurant daily. When they beg, they do so only from white people. Quelimane, however, is a big city. There are many Mozambicans better dressed than I. But the father and son let these people pass by, while the foreign tourists are the ones who are targeted. The boy and man are still hungry, they are still poor, but they are also aware that poverty is a business.

So what does one do to address this? It’s one thing to be confused by poverty; it’s another to be confused by the cycle of poverty beneath the surface.

May we all use our confusion to address these needs.

In many ways, my internship in DC has been like archiving MasterCard commercials. My assignment to create a database on all IRD water, sanitation, and hygiene programs led to a quest of garnering countless reports with amazing outputs at streamlined budgets.

Currently, over 60 separate IRD programs in 23 different countries have:

X dollars spent,
Y quantity of water sources rehabilitated or created,
Z number of people with potable water,
And an end outcome of “priceless.”

Quantifying these programs has given me a sense of what ingredients are needed to create integrated and sustainable programs. I mean this both in the most direct sense (generally, what x, y, z’s does a program need), and also from a socio-political systematic perspective.

Interestingly, “priceless” cannot happen without MasterCard, or in this case, sources of funding. Being a pragmatist, I must ask: Does enough worldwide funding exist to meet MDGs [Millennium Development Goals]? And the answer is not nearly enough. To compound the lack of sufficient funding worldwide, the often harsh reality is that continued funding is influenced by political winds, particularly in the arena of international foreign assistance. And this is where Advocacy enters the picture. The fact that IRD has readily developed its advocacy sector demonstrates its proactive stance to bridge funding gaps. What can I say, except that the idealist in me is satisfied?

Sure, I may not have scenic pictures to bring back with me, but I think learning about the importance of advocacy in relation to funding is apropos for an internship in Washington DC. With great advocacy, I am inspired to envision future “priceless” moments around the world.

I was fortunate to attend a “Gender and Peace Training” facilitated by three organizations from the Palu area, YAMMI (Indonesia Civil Society Foundation), SHK (Community Forestry System) and Yayasan Bone Bula (White Sand Foundation). These three groups set out to map the District of Donggala for causes of potential conflict. A few of their findings include competition for access to and control of natural resources, inadequate data about ethnic groups in this area, and policies that are not gender inclusive. From the participatory community mapping, YAMMI, SHK and Bone Bula realized that community members’ understanding and knowledge of gender was less sophisticated than they assumed, so the “Gender and Peace” training was adjusted to address the community members’ specific needs.

The “Gender and Peace” training, which included local men and women, related a variety of information about gender, including a discussion on the basic differences of sex and gender leading to increased verbalization of gender injustices in communities. The workshop also included discussions about the discrepancies between the types and amount of work that men and women perform, the barriers to work women face, and the lack of women’s participation in community development and policy.

To highlight these differences the workshop facilitator, Jerna Wati from the Indonesia Women’s Coalition, along with the participants, created a timetable or daily schedule, describing women’s and men’s tasks throughout the day. The differences were staggering; women’s schedules were jam-packed with household chores, food preparation and child care, and men’s schedules, with jobs outside the household, had considerably more free time, involvement in the community and influence in public policies. The workshop participants also discussed the negative effects that these differences in the work force have on women’s health, education and access to information and technology. Following the training the participants chose to lobby their local governments to ensure women are invited to participate in village development planning. In addition workshop participants now better realize gender inequalities and are eager and motivated to hold meetings in their own communities to disseminate this information.

I recognize a discussion about sex and gender and the realization of gender inequalities will not change communities and policy overnight, but it is a step in the right direction. However, including women in the conversation could be life-changing. As Jesus sat at the well with the Samaritan woman, talking about thirst-quenching living water, I like to assume Jesus had intentions about changing social norms, letting women be a part of the conversation and more importantly spreading the message of Christ’s saving grace. Jesus saw the value of including not only his disciples, but men and women living on the margins of society, placed there because of illness, disability, marital status, sexual immorality, and even ethnicity. Jesus simply talked with the woman, and in turn she shared her story with the community. “Then, leaving her water jar, the woman went back to the town and said to the people, “Come, see a man who told me everything I ever did. Could this be the Christ?” They came out of the town and made their way toward him…Many of the Samaritans from that town believed in him because of the woman’s testimony.” (John 4:28-30, 39) In the village workshops in Indonesia, and my reflection on our work here, I am realizing the power of communication and conversation to avoid violence, maintain peace and spread the message of Christ; all it takes is people talking to one another and understanding multiple points of view.

During my work with Serasi, I became aware of what we learned to call “The B Factor.” The “B” in The B Factor refers to the Indonesian word buleh. Originally, this word referred to natives born as albinos, but it eventually came to represent all Caucasian people; now it covers all Westerners. Walking down the streets in many Indonesian cities, I am greeted by people calling out, “Buleh, buleh!” I typically smile and wave a polite hello, or if I’m feeling particularly entertaining I’ll call back with a few Indonesian greetings. This is usually followed by a long deep laugh from the initiator of the conversation.

The B Factor extends beyond the street. Stories were told by Serasi team members of attempting to rent cars in remote locations only to be denied again and again until a buleh appeared. Once the Westerner arrived, cars suddenly became available and nearly anything was possible. When the local TV station in Palu learned that Serasi had two buleh interns in town, the entire office was invited to be VIP guests at the station’s monthly concert. We had front row sofas, drinks, and food. The station manager and many of the station employees regularly checked on us to make sure that we were enjoying ourselves. On three different occasions I found myself on stage as some sort of combination of back-up dancer and comedy act. The experience was one I will never forget.

I’ve also learned that The B Factor is more than entertainment. While working in the field, it was clear that although I was only the intern and had little experience in most of the project areas being developed, everything I said was taken as fact. Even when I did my best to hedge my comments against this possibility the response was always agreement with my statement. The Serasi Program Officer with whom I was working could speak for thirty minutes without being able to convince the local representative of a particular idea, and a quick statement from me could easily change a mind. I was benefiting from expert status based on my ethnicity, not on any level of knowledge.

This aspect of The B Factor comes with a great deal of responsibility. Having all eyes on me for the majority of my time in Indonesia has been a new challenge. Although it can be nice to have every word I speak be respected and believed, I have had to be intentional in remembering to speak cautiously when helping to brainstorm ideas, for as soon as I speak an idea the brainstorming screeches to a halt. In our efforts to help communities around the world, it is important to be conscious of the cultural clout that accompanies us. Working in an office of Indonesian nationals and spending time with local people in the field, it is important for me and all expat workers to remember that we are only guests in this place and that the decisions should be made by the people. Even when we aren’t interested in making the decisions for the local people, it is also important to remember how highly our opinions are respected, regardless of how well educated they are. We are here to help, but if we are not conscious of the weight of our words, we may well end up doing more harm than good.

This is not only true in the development field, but also in the church. Even when we think we’re experts, or if our degrees and clothes make us seem that way to others, our words often carry more weight than we recognize. We are not called to fix people’s thoughts or make them see our way. Rather, we are called as shepherds to help guide and lead others to see for themselves. Serasi’s system of using local staff in Palu seems to help avoid forcing decisions here. This system is designed to support peace-building in Indonesia by allowing the local people to make their own decisions, and it appears to be a good way around the overpowering influence of The B Factor. In our work in the church, or elsewhere in the world, it is important to remember to guide and encourage, not dictate and blame. The more people are allowed and encouraged to use their own ideas to help themselves, the more likely the effort will last.

A few days ago we had a discussion about what the lyrics to this song could mean. In the midst of talking about some strange woman showering on a rooftop and a king getting his hair chopped off, the lyrics to the song also mention something about the composer’s search for God. In the end, the words discuss the impossibility of the “hallelujah” being found in light, the “halellujah” being a broken kind of thing all along. Now, such rambling baffles me…as it probably should baffle us all. The original songwriter, Leonard Cohen, wasn’t exactly known for living a life where he took the principles of D.A.R.E. too seriously. In all actuality, though, who knows what that song means. It’s beautiful, but inconclusive and elusive at best.

However, such descriptions don’t stop the song from continually playing on repeat in my head. A week ago, Carlile’s rendition was lodged somewhere between my cerebral cortex and medulla oblongata as I made the trek with my coworkers into the field to visit an HIV/AIDS patient receiving home-based care (HBC) from one of IRD’s partnering organizations. Bedridden and weighing 90 pounds at a heavy estimate, the patient was a former HBC volunteer who had given others care and support in his former life. Since January, however, the man had been violently sick himself, receiving some of the hardest blows and punches this disease often throws.

In typical Mozambican fashion, we were welcomed into the two-room home where the patient and 10 of his family members reside. On a straw mat padded with blankets and sheets boasting Looney Toons characters, this man was curled up in a corner, a worn book lying by his side. His friends and fellow HBC volunteers followed us inside the door, kneeled and squatted around the man on the ground, and provided some of the kindest faces I’ve ever looked upon. For 30 minutes, our group talked with our host and volunteers. We learned that he and his uncle were war survivors who had come from the north to the interior of this southern province to build a better life for their family, planting roots for both crop production and future generations. He told us of his love for his new community, his gratitude to the HBC volunteers who surrounded him, and his hope that the worst days of his suffering were behind him. The tattered book at his bedside, he revealed, was his HBC manual. He spent most of his waking moments re-reading the tips that will make him a better volunteer for others when he gets back on his feet.

Towards the end of the visit, there was a look exchanged between the volunteers and their patient that jolted anyone that witnessed it. The look was at once so intimate, so unsexual yet enormously passionate, and so fused with vulnerability that it took you by surprise. In fact, it made a person feel uncomfortable…uncomfortable because up until that point—that one particular moment in time—it had been shamefully difficult to understand what it meant to give yourself to someone, to know what real sharing could be, and to understand where searching for God first begins.

I’m still clueless what the song “Hallelujah” actually means. And quite honestly, I’m really trying hard to avoid overdramatizing the whole experience I just described. However, I can’t help but think that what I had the pleasure of witnessing in that two-room-concrete-block-of-a-house had something to do with what the song talks about. In my mind, Hallelujah is found somewhere in the midst of what happened in Mozambique.