Knowing that I can’t contribute much to the hospital and clinic run by the Canossian Sisters, I have decided to use what skills I do have: this includes, organization. Really, I love to organize, especially the file folders on my computer, email inboxes, the books at my parents house, our storage room in Aru, art closets at the school, and of course straightening-up the Cyber Café & Bakery.I just can’t help it!
Here’s the story.
Every Thursday morning, I volunteer at St. Bakhita’s Center for Malnourished Children.
Quick History: In 1878, Josephine Bakhita, at the age of nine, was captured from her home in
From 10am-12pm parents from surrounding villages bring their children who are underweight, sick or in need medication to the clinic. Many arrive after having walked for hours with their children strapped to their backs. They are mostly mothers, some fathers, a few grandparents and even children who bring their younger brother or sister. They are sweaty, tired, and hungry, but always smiling. When they first arrive, they shuffle through a pile of papers, scribbled in pen with the names, ages, villages/origin, past treatment and medical history (of sorts). Once they are lucky enough to locate their child’s sheet, they come to me so that I can weigh the children on the kilo scale.
Screaming and crying because they don’t want to be placed into the ripped and disgusting pieces of cloth which are used to hang them on the scale or screaming and crying because I’m the only white person they’ve ever seen and its freaking them out. I just smile and the mothers laugh, and despite it all, the children are weighed, recorded, and proceed to the doctor for malnutrition inspection. Here, the doctor will ask a few questions, check the eyes, notice the hair (if there’s orange-coloring, it’s a sign of severe malnutrition). She then writes a prescription, which the parents take to the next desk.
Throughout this entire process, I would like to say thank goodness I’ve been raised with the chaotic joys of a large extended family, which can’t help but be a part of everyone’s lives all the time (it’s really beautiful, actually). Anyways, if you’re not accustomed to uninterrupted laughter, occasional screaming, and handfuls of children bursting with activity, then it would be a very, very long two hours for you.
The children are covered with dirty, torn clothes, sometimes lacking a shirt or pants, and only half of them wear shoes. If they are wearing pants its helps, if not, peeing on the concrete floor is always an option, though obviously receives a disapproving look from one of the three community health-workers or another parent. As the children wander around the room, waiting their turn, they chew on the rolls of bread we pass out to each of them. I’ve noticed that sometimes its difficult for them to chew because they aren’t accustomed to having solid foods, despite the fact that they’re 2, 3, or 4 years old.
Most of the children are extremely, extremely malnourished. As I take them from their mother, father, grandparent, or sister I often have to remind myself to smile and not appear shocked as I each weigh child. Some children have scars and infected patches covering their bodies, many have discolored hair signifying malnutrition, a few have swollen legs or arms, and when I mentioned that there is screaming and crying, it’s true, but for a few of the children, they are so weak that they lack the strength to cry.
The parents are incredibly gracious. Many of the families speak only Lingala, or other local, native languages of the
Watching the parents spend forever trying to locate the sheets that float about the room throughout the morning, it immediately occurred to me to make new sheets, in a binder, with ABC file dividers. This of course meant that I had to take a trip into
Thursday, 20 January 2011
Today wasn’t supposed to be just another day of weighing children; it was the day I brought my three-hole punch and freshly typed-up information sheets. I was determined to bring a bit of order (and progress), to all the madness.
First of all, it wasn’t as busy as usual; this allowed me to file away, according to last name. Weighing the children, there was one little girl who I hadn’t seen before. As I was asking her mother questions, the grandfather remained in the far corner of the room. The young girl was much like the others, but after she was examined, the doctor asked her grandfather to come forward. He sat down in the chair in front of me and as I went down my list of questions, his responses were barely audible. The strength in his voice matched that of his absolute physical frailty. At 45 years-old he could barely talk. Looking into his eyes, I didn’t see life; I only saw pain, exhaustion, and misery.
In seeing him next to all the young children, I hoped to God that his life had had happiness; that not every moment was spent working or starving. And as the tears began to crowd my eyes, I tried with all my strength not to let them fall. But my efforts were for nothing. After I finished with the questions, the doctor asked him to remove his shirt so she could measure the width of arm.
He tried to remove his shirt, but there was no strength. The doctor came around her desk; standing between him and the crowd of mothers, offering some privacy. She glanced in my direction and then back down at him. Never, in my entire life, had I seen anybody as emaciated as he was; without a shirt, he resembled that of a skeleton, not a human being.
At this point, more than any experience here thus far, I had to imagine that he had lived, that there were moments in his life when he laughed so hard that he cried, moments of happiness and joy when he married or held his children for the first time, or the simple appreciation in the morning at sunrise, for another beautiful, ordinary day: searching for something to tell me that there had been life.
Not one person said a word, not even the children. There was no talking, laughing, crying, or screaming. The emotion in the eyes of others was sadness, pity, and fear; fear of being so close to someone near death, and knowing they couldn't do anything to stop it. As I looked down on my binder, I couldn't think of any other way to describe it than completely insignificant. Why? Because he is going to die, just as thousands of others will this year from hunger.
