It Happened on the Way to War (11 page)

“CON-FI-DENCE,” we replied.

The ditty had bothered me when I first heard it as a freshman. It sounded corny, and it was different from the macho hunter-killer stuff we were used to hearing. But my bigger issue with the ditty was conceptual. At the time, I confused confidence with arrogance, and I thought both words characterized a disregard for life's complexity. History was rife with cases of supremely confident leaders who made poor judgments that caused tremendous harm. The word also reminded me of a comment my father had once made about hubris, the quality of excessive pride that was the tragic flaw of so many of the classic Greek heroes. “Hubris,” Dad had proclaimed while we watched a Marine give a press conference during the first Gulf War, “is the greatest threat to the Marine Corps.”

Hearing the cadence at OCS, however, clarified things. After all, no one wants to follow people who are unsure of themselves. Confidence could be a great enabler. It was the foundation that made it possible to lead Marines into dangerous places, even when the one leading was a twenty-two-year-old with a college degree and little life experience. It was also one of the key qualities that first attracted me to Salim, Tabitha, and Ali. It took confidence to make an impact in places that others viewed as hopeless. I needed to embrace it as one of my strengths and trust that my education and upbringing would keep hubris at bay with a questioning mind and a humble heart.

We formed a phalanx on the steaming asphalt parade deck for graduation day. Friends and family congregated in a row of bleachers, fanning themselves with the ceremonial programs. I had finished in the lowest third of the class. Disappointed by my lackluster performance, I was glad that my parents had another commitment and couldn't make the trip.

The ceremony was uneventful. We marched around in a square and then stood locked at attention with our bootheels melting into the parade deck as a Marine general officer gave a long-winded speech over speakers that were so squeaky they could have come out of Kibera. The only thing I remembered from his speech was the ending: “Congratulations, future Marine officers.” We were no longer candidates.

Before we broke formation, Staff Sergeant Sweeney held us at attention for one more long, sweaty minute. “Marines move toward the sound of guns,” he said in a calm, methodical way. “They aren't looking to you to be their friends. They don't need you to be a friend. They need you to lead them.”

A handful of us without family present headed back to the barracks to pack our gear. In the larger scheme of things, all we had done was pass a six-week mini-boot-camp through which hundreds of candidates churned each year in hopes of being Marine officers and, possibly, if their timing was right, finding themselves in a position of responsibility on missions that mattered. Nevertheless, in the moment, the experience felt much more significant. As we walked together toward the redbrick barracks, we realized that it was the first time we had moved across the parade deck as a group and not been marching. It didn't feel right. So we shifted into a small formation. Miller stepped out to call cadence. He had wrapped his severely sprained ankle every morning and grunted out the last two weeks of OCS. He kicked us off with a ditty, driving his heels into the burning black asphalt.

“LEFT-RIGHT, LEFT-RIGHT, AND WHAT'S THE KEY?”

We shouted back as one, “CON-FI-DENCE.”

MY CLOTHES, CAMOUFLAGE, and other gear from OCS filled two duffel bags. I tossed the new duffel in the back of my old Dodge Caravan, the Green Bean. I stowed my other duffel, the one with my father's name still faintly stenciled on it, up at the base of the passenger's seat. It reminded me of a rare moment when Staff Sergeant Sweeney had shown me some respect. He was chewing me out for the length of my nose hairs when he spotted my old duffel.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS, SCHWARTZ?” he shouted. “WHY IS THIS DUFFEL FADED AND MARKED UP? ARE YOU TOO CHEAP TO GET A NEW BAG?”

“Sergeant Instructor—”

“AND WHAT DOES THIS WRITING SAY ANYWAY? ‘FIRST LIEUTENANT.' YOU THINK YOU'RE A LIEUTENANT ALREADY? YOU'RE A CANDIDATE. YOU'RE NOTHING.”

“It's my father's.”

“He was a Marine?”

“Yes.”

“Pogue?” Sweeney asked, using the pejorative for Marines not in combat-arms specialties.

“No, infantry, recon.”

“Combat?”

“Vietnam.”

“Very well, Schwartz. Now go take care of your nose hairs. You look nasty.”

“Aye aye, Sergeant Instructor Staff Sergeant Sweeney,” I said and jogged to the head to tear out my nose hairs.

Around the same time as the incident with my dad's duffel, I had questioned my decision to go to Kibera. Now that my body was back in shape and I had passed OCS, I no longer had doubts about that decision. I did, however, have a better appreciation of the risk that my ROTC commander Major Boothby had taken. Had I been badly injured in Kibera, or if I had failed OCS, Major Boothby would have shouldered responsibility for supporting my request. It was a decision that could easily strike a more conventionally minded Marine Corps officer as reckless. My request had clearly spelled out my intent to live in one of the world's largest slums and then, less than a week later, attend one of our country's most intense officer candidate courses. Yet Major Boothby took a chance on me. For that he earned my fiercest loyalty and respect.

The sentries at the main gates stood at attention as I drove past. I was heading back to Chapel Hill for my senior year. Euphoria rushed to my head as I gunned the Green Bean down I-95. I had done it, and now I was going back as a senior, a big man on campus. I was no longer a Marine candidate. I was a midshipman first class, soon-to-be “second lieutenant of Marines.” I loved the sound of it. My dream was coming true.

I called home to share my happy moment with my parents. Dad was out but Mom was there. I told her some stories about OCS: the rope, the night patrol, and the incident with Dad's duffel. I spoke quickly, lacing my sentences with Marine jargon, hyperbole, and words such as “outstanding,” “motivating,” and “absolutely.” Mom enjoyed hearing about my experience, though her response was subdued by her distrust of militarism and military bravado. When she offered me a warning about culture shock, I thought she was shifting the conversation back to Kibera. However, she was referring to the Marine Corps as well. “You've just been in two intense cultures,” she said. “It's like dual culture shock.”

I hadn't thought about my summer in such a way, but Mom was right. One of the things that most impressed me about Kibera was the spirit of community and its strong identity. There was a defiant pride associated with being from the slum. The Marine Corps was also an extremely close-knit, proud community. Both worlds had their own languages. The Sheng of Kibera didn't translate in other parts of Nairobi; the jargon of the Marine Corps was challenging my mother's ability to understand what I was saying. It wasn't simply that they were different cultures. They were both extraordinarily strong cultures with high barriers of entry and elaborate rites of passage, rituals, and myths. In three short months, I was indoctrinated in each of them. Each place had pushed me to my limits, then accepted me in its own way. In Kibera, the community welcomed me. In the Marines, the command deemed that I was worthy of the title. I had stepped into two worlds with identities so forceful they could border on kinship, blood bonds. They were two worlds where I could make a difference, two worlds that mattered.

My mother offered me some advice for how to deal with the “dual culture shock.” As an anthropologist, she understood the issue from personal experience and a lifetime of scholarship. “It takes time,” she said. She spoke about how it was important to realize that I was adjusting, and to accept that. She cautioned me to find outlets for my energy and not to get upset when I saw things that bothered me. It was natural to feel frustrated, she said. She was giving me great advice, and I was committing it to memory. I knew culture shock was powerful. I needed to be ready for it. I needed to face it.

“And you need to slow down. You need time to think. Go slow.”

Her final words stunned me. I didn't know what to say.

“Rye, did you hear me?”

“Yes, Mom.”

Yes, I had heard my mother, and it felt like the one thing that she could have said that was impossible. I was always a bit fired up as a kid, high energy and high maintenance. However, college, Kibera, and the Marine Corps gave me a sense of urgency like none other. I didn't know exactly where I was running, but I was running, and I wanted to go faster, not slower. Slow down? How could I slow down when it was just the beginning?

Part II

CHAPTER SIX

Doers

Chapel Hill, North Carolina

FALL 2000–SPRING 2001

THE DUAL CULTURE SHOCK MY MOTHER warned me about didn't hit me until after I returned to Chapel Hill for my senior year. When it arrived, it landed hard. I felt like a foreigner in the comfortable, pampered world of the university. Little things bothered me: empty classrooms with their lights on and air conditioners roaring, half-asleep campus security guards, rich kids in fancy cars, the cost of a cup of coffee. I stopped going to the school cafeteria because I couldn't tolerate the waste on people's trays. My friends were my age, but I felt much older.

One night during my first week back on campus, a student who looked as if he had just stepped out of a country club mistook me for someone else and confronted me at a college bar called Four Corners. At first, I tried to de-escalate the situation, but he was obnoxious and we were drunk. After he tossed his beer in my face, I head-butted him and began choking him until a buddy ripped me away. Had I not known the bartenders from my days working there as a bouncer, I might have been arrested and lost my opportunity to be a Marine Corps officer.

That was my wake-up call. I stopped going out and barreled into my work. The work was addictive and focused on two areas beyond my normal course load and ROTC training. The first area was an opportunity to teach a self-structured class for one hour of pass/fail credit to undergraduates during the spring semester of my senior year. Still searching for a greater understanding of ethnic conflict, I decided to teach a course on “ethnic cleansing and genocide.” I spent a lot of time reading gruesome, heartbreaking accounts of man's inhumanity to man. Professor Peacock, the anthropologist who had once taught my mother, served as my faculty adviser. He had a hands-off approach and treated me more like a colleague than a student. Together, we coauthored a statement on ethnic cleansing for the American Anthropological Association, which he had previously led as its president. I viewed Professor Peacock as my first mentor in college, and I treasured the relationship we had developed over three years.

My deep dive into the subjects of ethnic cleansing and genocide complemented my main area of focus, which was to write a senior honors thesis on ethnic violence and nongovernmental organizations in Kibera. Professor Richard Kohn, a military historian, served as the chair of my thesis committee. I had taken two classes with him. Although he wasn't an anthropologist and had no ties to Africa, his wisdom from a lifetime studying armed conflict was invaluable, and as a historian he helped me connect the key events in Kibera's past. Most important, he took a hands-on approach with my work.

Early in the fall semester Professor Kohn encouraged me to apply for a Rhodes Scholarship. He had once served as the chief historian of the U.S. Air Force, and he knew that a handful of Rhodes scholars were selected from the military service academies and ROTC programs. I didn't know much about the Rhodes, which provided two years of fully-funded graduate-school education at Oxford University, but I enjoyed a good competition and was flattered by his recommendation. I pulled together an application and put my name into the arena.

By the time I arrived at the North Carolina State finalist round, I knew much more about the prestigious scholarship and assumed that my chances were slim. My assumption was confirmed by the other finalists. They were students who had already made significant contributions. They were activists, athletes, and entrepreneurs. They were doers. One of the students had launched an educational-software company from his dorm room that generated more than a million dollars of annual revenue. A young woman aspiring to be a doctor created a nonprofit to distribute high-quality, used medical equipment destined for Dumpsters to clinics in the developing world. These students were like Ted Lord, the door carver and aspiring medical doctor who had spoken to our Swahili class. They took initiative and made things happen. I was disappointed but not surprised when I wasn't selected as one of the two candidates to advance to the next round.

One of the other finalists suggested that I speak to her friend Kim Chapman because of my interest in youth development in Africa. Kim was a recent UNC graduate who had produced a documentary on youth and AIDS in South Africa. I followed up and met Kim in her office later that week.

Five feet two inches tall with short, curly blonde hair, and a silver stub nose-ring, Kim ran marathons and played rugby. She impressed me with her high energy, sharp mind, and good nature. She had twenty minutes before her next meeting, and in that short period she gave me a synopsis of how and why she produced a film that would later be shown at the annual International AIDS Conference. As we finished the meeting, Kim asked me briefly about Kibera and told me that I should give her a call if I decided to “do something, besides research, of course.”

“Research.” There it was again, the albatross. I had convinced myself that research was important because it created awareness and could help give voice to the poor. But my conversation with Kim reminded me that research was the beginning, not the goal.

RETURNING HOME FOR Christmas break, I avoided reaching out to my high school football buddies, who were reuniting at the bars to relive the glory days. I turned off my cell phone and set up in my mom's office, a ten-by-ten at the University of Rhode Island's College of Nursing. It was quiet and isolated, just what I needed to finish the first draft of my thesis.

Most of my writing that week focused on two chapters on nongovernmental organizations in Kibera. Many of the NGOs that I had encountered were led by expatriates or elite Kenyans who spent comparatively large sums of money on comfortable offices, Land Cruisers, and other perks. The more time I spent studying these parts of the development industry, the more frustrated I became with it. In most cases, large international NGOs seemed to take the wrong approach. Instead of asking the target communities about local needs and context, these NGOs brought in highly educated foreign experts with their own solutions to problems that they didn't really understand.

It was a bitterly cold, gray New England day. Everything outside appeared dead. Kim Chapman, Ted Lord, and the doers whom I had met during the Rhodes competition were on my mind, as were Major Boothby's words about Marines having a “bias for action.” I took a break from the computer and started pumping out sets of push-ups on my mom's office floor. My contacts with Salim, Taib, Jumba, and Elizabeth were sporadic, although they each seemed eager to have me return. They had captivating stories, big visions, and a lot of talent. An idea finally took shape in between push-ups:
I could do something in partnership with these Kenyans that would be larger than raising money for Elizabeth's nursery school. Together, we could develop young leaders and make change in Kibera. I could start an organization, raise a small amount of money, and invest it in community leaders.
It was simple, but I viewed it as a radical departure from the way most aid worked. In fact, it struck me as so powerful and right that I didn't think much about the possibility of failure.

Fund-raising was on my mind as I typed an e-mail announcing the birth of the organization. It didn't seem all that daunting at the time. In fact, I assumed it'd be easy. We lived in a supremely affluent country, a country where the cost of the ink for my printer could feed a family in Kibera for two months.
It could have been the other way around. We, too, could have been born with nothing.

I figured I could get some support from the university and our alumni. A Rhode Island “Tar Heel Club” had thrown a send-off party for the three of us in the state who were heading to Carolina. About twenty alums showed up for the party. They treated us like we were heroes, as if we were already part of the tribe, and they loved the university. They loved Carolina and Carolina basketball with a passion. UNC had Tar Heel Clubs in nearly every state in the country. It was a rabid fan base, a large pool of potential donors. Surely they would want to help? The name flowed from that assumption. Carolina for Kibera, CFK.

My Palm Pilot had a hundred contacts in it. I pulled a list of three dozen people who I thought would be interested and able to help CFK: family, friends, Peter Whaley, and my closest professors at UNC. Most of the recipients were obvious additions. However, I deliberated heavily about including Major Boothby on the e-mail. Some old advice from my father came to mind. Dad always cautioned me to have important conversations in person whenever possible. I didn't know much about what it would take to start an NGO, but I knew that I couldn't get back to Kibera without Major Boothby's support. I decided to wait until I was back in Chapel Hill and had a more thorough plan before I approached the major.

Once the e-mail was ready, I paused and took a jog through the empty halls. What I was doing wasn't rational. With my thesis, teaching the ethnic cleansing seminar, graduating, and getting ready for the Marines, I had more than enough to do. Yet CFK was such a good idea, and if we didn't do it, who would? I returned to Mom's office, stood over her old Apple computer and took the plunge with the click of a mouse.

Practically every recipient of that first e-mail wrote back to me. Each response felt as if I were opening a gift. Professor Peacock, who never wrote more than a line in his e-mail replies, sent back one word—“Good.” Jennifer Coffman wrote a note saying, “Go for it!” The responses were encouraging from everyone except Whaley, who asked, “Are you sure the world needs another NGO? You're better off just giving the money away.”

“It takes more than giving away money,” I replied. “We'll invest in local leaders and learn in partnerships with one another.”

For the rest of winter break I ignored my writing and immersed myself in the details of starting an organization. I charted out a timeline that included a long to-do list. A fair amount of my time was spent learning the language and jargon of the nonprofit community. One of my first hurdles was to obtain 501(c)(3) status as a U.S. tax-exempt organization so that charitable contributions could be deducted. After I read a few pages of the dense Internal Revenue Service application, the need for an attorney to help me navigate the process was clear. Unfortunately, the average attorney charged thousands of dollars.

My parents were surprised but supportive of my decision to launch CFK. They believed in the idea of taking research to action and much of their own work had been practically focused on real world needs. Mom, of course, brought me back to the Margaret Mead quote about never doubting the power of a “small group of thoughtful, committed citizens.” My father, who enjoyed being contrarian, reminded me of a quote from Karl Marx: “The philosophers have only interpreted the world, in various ways; the point, however, is to change it.”

After I vented to my parents about the more prosaic challenge of legal fees, Dad suggested that I talk to his old friend George Levendis, a former infantry officer and Vietnam veteran who had become a partner at one of Washington, D.C.'s, most prominent law firms, Patton Boggs. I forwarded Mr. Levendis a copy of the CFK e-mail and followed up with a phone call. He cut me off ten minutes into my fervent spiel about NGO waste and the importance of youth empowerment.

“Okay, okay, I got it.” He sounded preoccupied. It was midmorning on a workday, and I would later learn that his law firm calculated client billing in fifteen-minute increments. “I think we can make this happen. I'll be in touch.”

It didn't much matter what kind of nonprofit it was. As long as it was well intentioned, George Levendis would help the son of his friend and fellow Marine. A week later, Patton Boggs committed to providing thousands of dollars' worth of free legal expertise.
Semper fidelis.

FOLLOWING MY FATHER'S advice, I briefed Major Boothby in person about my hopes for CFK as soon as I returned to Chapel Hill from Christmas break. At the time, the Marine Corps appeared to have more officers than it knew what to do with and needed midshipmen to volunteer to delay our start date at the Basic School, the six-month course at Quantico that marks the beginning of every new Marine officer's career. Major Boothby didn't see a problem getting my request approved for three months of unpaid leave to return to Kibera, and when I told him about our overarching goal to use sports and youth leadership development to prevent ethnic violence, he said my work there could teach me a lot about unconventional warfare. His only caveat was that raising the $20,000 that was needed would be a considerable challenge. This surprised me because I still assumed that $20,000 would be fairly easy to generate for such a noble cause. Major Boothby decided that I needed to raise half before he would sign off on my proposal and send it up the chain of command.

My first priority was to establish a Web site. It was the age of the Internet and no serious organization existed without a site. I envisioned setting one up, securing our 501(c)(3) status, then watching the donations roll in online. Unfortunately, I quickly learned that building a Web site required knowledge of a computer language called HTML. I needed to build a team, and I didn't have much time. I worked around the clock, spending most of my evenings on my laptop in dark corners of coffee shops on Franklin Street, Chapel Hill's main drag. I drank so much coffee I could no longer sense the effect that caffeine had on my mind.