Justice roll on like a river

When we pull up to the entrance, we’re met with concrete barriers and formidable guards brandishing AK47s. We brandish our usual smiles and greetings as we pile into the one room building of emotionless faces, waiting.

Signing in the book and waiting, presenting our IDs, having their gifts poked, prodded, opened. Then waiting some more. Once we’ve told the stern looking female officers that we’re with the church only one of us has to sign the book. In exchange a handful of visitor badges are given to us.

Badges on and back in the vehicle, we maneuver through the concrete barriers and armed guards. We offer smiles, greetings and a “We are going to remand. Yes, we know the way.”

15 foot high steel gates open and close behind us. We park near the Remand building, stashing our purses, phones, and other belongings in hiding places within the soon to be locked vehicle. The Remand building is home to those who have been arrested but not yet been giving a trial. Many have lived there for years.

We wait to be summoned. We pray for God to lead, guide, and direct us. We want to express his Love, Joy, Forgiveness, Grace, and Hope – not condemnation, resignation, fire and brimstone.

Eventually the chaplain and her co-worker arrive. They call through a hole in the wide wood door, reinforced with steel bars. The lock is slid open, and soundlessly the door swings into the dark interior. We walk through, and the door clangs closed and locked behind us.

“What do you have? No phones, no cameras, no scarves.”

We hold up Bibles and one piece of paper with notes. An emotionless nod from the chaplain. We cautiously follow Chaplain Margaret through the short, dark hallway into a sunny, open courtyard of cement, corrugated metal, and barbed wire.

They’re singing worship songs in Swahili in their straight gray or striped black and white calf length dresses, with socks and flip-flop sandals on their feet. Some wear orange vests over their dresses. During a previous visit I learned that the prisoners in orange suffer some form of mental illness. “If I resided here, I’d be in orange too,” I think to myself.

They clap and sway and harmonize like angels. Most eyes are closed – a temporary escape from these four concrete walls, barbed wire, and bars that keep them from family, friends, their own children and freedom.

A row of plastic chairs sits facing the singers and we’re escorted to these seats of honor for the free that come in, preach and leave.

I hate the seats of honor. What sets me apart from them? From the stories I’ve heard, I don’t believe many of these women are truly guilty, much less convicted. Yet here they stay, awaiting justice, kept from caring for the ones they love for days, months, and years.

We’re introduced and each of us stand, share our names and a quick greeting.

One of us will share a testimony and then we’ll pray together and anyone that wants will pray for her one on one.

I wink & smile at the two precious sisters that brought me here. I slip out of my plastic chair to whisper greetings and updates they can understand. I translate for the testimony, but they nearly vibrate in impatience. They just want to talk and be understood in their own language.

At the closing prayer, my hands are clasped and cheeks are kissed. I am hugged. Often we cry and pray. I give them an index card with a few Spanish verses bursting with hope.

They’re far, far from home – imprisoned in a country they only planned to visit for an exotic vacation. Manipulated or tricked? They are trapped and held here. And they wait. With every visit, there’s a new court date to pray for – pray that the lawyer, the translator, and the witnesses will actually show up. There will be answers. How long?

I met them at their 3rd and 4th months in remand. Now they’ve both been there over a year – waiting on answers and a guilty or innocent verdict.

“I’ll pray for you everyday. I’ll visit. I’ll pray on your court date.” What else can I possibly do?

That could never be me, right? Or could it? Everyone fails, makes one bad choice and crosses the invisible line or comes face to face with injustice.

The rule of law here sometimes feels more like a game of cat and mouse. We’ve been escorted to the police station many times for infractions such as an illegal turn that was not marked, or being in the wrong lane when the lanes are not even painted. Most taxi drivers expertly scan roadside bushes, checking for police men on the ready to pull over motorists for obscure offenses. We’ve heard several testimonies of night guards framed and arrested for crimes they had no idea had even occured. The International Justice Mission estimates that low income young adults in Kenya are more likely to be killed by police than by law breakers.

Like all corners of the world, I know that justice is not perfect here, nor is it anywhere. I know that my Lord promises to “one day judge the world with justice, and rule the nations with fairness” (Psalms 9). In the meantime, I look forward to the weekly moments I can share with these sweet sisters in the family of God, encouraging them and hopefully letting glimmers of God’s love shine into their now bleak world.