The Ltungai Sustainable Education Project (LSEP): What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
“Plans are worthless, but planning is everything.” — Dwight D. Eisenhower
In the time of COVID, pressures that previously disrupted the Ltungai women’s village episodically now converged, threatening the community’s survival.
Intertribal tensions resulted in violence throughout the area. Many of Ltungai’s goats were stolen and the remaining animals slowly died from drought. COVID killed tourism, so no visitors came to learn about the Samburu culture and lifestyle. Markets closed, so the community had no outlets for selling their beautiful beadwork and blacksmithed wares. Schools closed, and though they are now reopened, the women have no funds for school fees, so the children remain at home without education and, on many days, food.
Beginning 2021, Ltungai women took to breaking stone, used for roadbed and other construction projects. Breaking rock is difficult, bloody work, usually undertaken by the poorest street children, almost always the boys. In May, 2021, Ltungai founder and leader Beatrice Loldepe (see 2 Feb post), sent me a short, moving video of the women in the quarry. Their energetic singing of traditional work songs provides a striking contrast to the drudgery of the work.
I forwarded the video, and one friend who was especially moved offered several thousand dollars to help. Here was an opportunity to implement an idea I had been contemplating for some time. Could the Ltungai women run a business that was not dependent on tourists or weather in order to reliably, effectively, and sustainably raise money for school fees? From this question, the Ltungai Sustainable Education Project (LSEP) emerged.
Beatrice immediately understood that LSEP would further her vision of making education a pathway to Ltungai children’s future. She was the one who suggested a rock crushing business, and the idea was brilliant. The quarry was nearby, left over from a highway project completed a few years ago. Construction in the region is escalating, there is no other source for rocks locally, and no equipment for crushing them. The resources and the market appeared extensive. Projected net income promised to meet the cost of school fees: $20,000/yr for about 50 K-12 students and $20,000/yr for four attending college.
The business case was strong, but the social promise motivated Beatrice equally. For a community without electricity or any kind of machines except cell phones — not even a motorbike — taking on a business dependent on a diesel engine entailed a dramatic, cultural paradigm shift. Yet, this was exactly why Beatrice favored Ltungai going into the rock crushing business. She understood that this business would push Ltungai women and children into a 21st Century market economy. The rock crushing business would make the Ltungai children’s education not simply relevant, but vital.
Beatrice and I exchanged a flurry of texts and WhatsApp calls over a three-month period. Although she had attended school only to the 8th grade (more than anyone else in the village), her English skills enabled us to communicate fluently. I asked her to provide information related to children’s education costs and market opportunities for the business and from those data we formed a business plan and a budget.
Beatrice kept the community informed about the process. It was important to me that the Ltungai Cultural Women’s Group buy into the concept, and from meeting minutes that Beatrice related, the women became increasingly excited about the possibilities. By early September, 2021, Beatrice and I finalized a proposal, which included purchasing a rock crushing machine.
Our donor (who insisted on anonymity) was impressed by the business plan. I brought an accountant on board, Rebecca Quintana. Rebecca owns Rural School Finance, a firm that manages accounting for rural school districts in southern Colorado. Her role would be to keep finances straight in our LSEP account and help the Ltungai women set up and manage their business accounts. I knew Rebecca would be a perfect fit for the project. Beatrice interviewed her in a phone call and later told me she agreed that Rebecca was right for LSEP, which Beatrice shared with the village.
Finally, I opened a bank account for the project. On September 22, 2021, I was drafting an email with instructions to our donor for wiring the funds into the account. Before I could hit SEND, I received an email from Beatrice’s nephew, Edward, a student studying accounting who was helping with the proposal. So, I paused and opened his message. It was a group email, expressing deep sympathy for Beatrice’s sudden death on September 17, 2021.
I re-read the message in disbelief. My heart began pounding and I suddenly felt cold. My brain scrambled. I realized after some time that I had not taken a breath. This information collided at a cellular level with the neurons racing through my mind stream. I had no way to fit this news into my worldview. A flood of powerful impulses jammed my ability to process cognitively and emotionally.
After some time, a single thought formed in my mind: What now? What about Ltungai? Could the community survive without Beatrice? And I’ll admit it, I wondered, What about me? I had known Beatrice for 15 years. I deeply liked, respected, and admired her. She forged hope and inspiration out of tremendous adversity. She created a women-led community that countered millennia-old traditional practices and values characterized by an oppressive patriarchal culture. She built and taught in a school that pointed to a future of broader possibility for boys, and liberation and self-actualization for girls, who for the first time in centuries had viable options other than becoming marital property. My world was diminished without Beatrice in it; my optimism for humanity dimmed.
And of course, I wondered, What about LSEP? Could the project survive without Beatrice? Could the community survive without LSEP?
For two weeks, I was paralyzed by these thoughts and emotions. LSEP stalled. Then, on 22 October, I received another an email from Edward, which began, Hello Menye Ltungai, referring to me by my Samburu name, which translates as patron of the village. At that moment it struck me that I am not Menye Beatrice. Ltungai has attracted one-time and short-term donations from visitors from the West. But Menye Ltungai is the only constant supporter in the world of the 120 souls in this village.
In that moment, I felt how deeply invested I was in Beatrice’s inspired and courageous vision to stake Ltungai’s future on its children’s education. And I suddenly understood that what I did or did not do next would influence whether that vision would outlive her. My support of Ltungai was more important now than ever before. Realizing the import of my connection to the community revived me, and I reformulated the question that had paralyzed me from the moment I learned of Beatrice’s death. I stopped asking What now? Instead, I began thinking: What next?
“I hope this will not be the end of what she started from day one. Let’s work together, pray together to have strength to recover from the deepest sorrow, and to keep her alive in our memories and celebrate to keep her part of our lives forever.” — Edward Loldepe, 22 Sept 2021
**********************************************************************
Special Note: Your reading this blog gives me and my team moral support — thank you! Currently, Ltungai children (K-12 and college) are unable to attend school for lack of required fees and supplies. By clicking the “Tip” button, 100% of your contribution will go towards getting Ltungai kids back to school. Thank you for your consideration, and God bless.
************************************************************************
