I feel like it is time to talk about her, as she has become a delightful, yet occasionally painful, part of my life. Maybe I was unprepared for her entrance into my life. This story, like any other, has two parts – first, when you meet someone and second, the development of your relationship- the second of which I’ll try to post soon.Part I
To acquaint you with this little girl, I must first tell you about her mother and the story of how we met her little family. It was on a dirt path next to a trickling rivulet that runs next to the Nehemiah Committee’s building in war-torn Masisi, on that particular trip that I blogged about in July. A woman with sunken eyes, pleading for hope, had brought her little girl to us for help. Plagued by untreated cerebral palsy, this girl had been dragging her atrophied little legs on her calloused and damaged knees for the first 9 years of her life. She had a long-ago deformed shoulder, most likely from being roughly pulled from the womb at birth or early in her infancy. Her ankles were stiffly becoming fixed in a hyper extended position.
To acquaint you with this little girl, I must first tell you about her mother and the story of how we met her little family. It was on a dirt path next to a trickling rivulet that runs next to the Nehemiah Committee’s building in war-torn Masisi, on that particular trip that I blogged about in July. A woman with sunken eyes, pleading for hope, had brought her little girl to us for help. Plagued by untreated cerebral palsy, this girl had been dragging her atrophied little legs on her calloused and damaged knees for the first 9 years of her life. She had a long-ago deformed shoulder, most likely from being roughly pulled from the womb at birth or early in her infancy. Her ankles were stiffly becoming fixed in a hyper extended position.
That fresh and sunny morning, her mother showed up at our doorstep with the Nehemiah Committee, her few belongings wrapped in African cloth and begging us to take her to HEAL Africa, saying she heard we help all people. This woman had a squealing baby boy strapped to her lower back, whimpering and demanding more milk, chomping violently on her breast, beating it for milk it couldn't give. The baby malnourished, the mother finished. She looked to be 45 but could not have been more than 30. Another of her children sat by her feet, and the little girl sitting in the middle of the road, disabled, on her knees, hands with fingers interlocked nervously, staring off into space as we all regarded her state.
We were fortunate enough to have a physical therapist with us on the trip. As Loran looked at the girl’s little legs so encrusted with dirt you could hardly tell the difference; with gentle touch, this previously unresponsive child started to smile, then followed directions and within minutes, clung to Loran. The mother watched us as her baby boy peed uncontrollably on her, the hot liquid dripping all the way down her back and skirt, creating a puddle behind her worn, green sandals as she tried to explain her needs to us. The troubled baby screamed disturbing, high-pitched shrieks, demanding to be fed.
I cannot imagine waking to her life every day.
She watched confusedly as everyone argued about how and when we could help the little girl, some of the men forcefully grabbing the child in typical African manner. The mama produced a letter of recommendation from a regional disability center for treatment in Goma. Finally, we gave her transport money to get to the hospital.
To me, she is an example of selfless sacrifice for the good of her family at whatever cost to her, a classy quality that often permeates this society. Women like her have my respect, however, I mourn for her above anything. Is there not something we can do to help women like her engage in their lives with dignity- as women, as mothers, as human beings? How did someone like her end up with so much trouble, with so little opportunity?
My heart suffocated, I watched as she balanced all her belongings on her head- a pot and a pan wrapped in a big cloth- and, the baby still strapped to her back, her skirt still soaked, she lifted her little daughter onto her shoulders, her other child trailing behind her as she made her way up the path. Maybe with some hope renewed, yet her problems, in essence, unchanged.
We were fortunate enough to have a physical therapist with us on the trip. As Loran looked at the girl’s little legs so encrusted with dirt you could hardly tell the difference; with gentle touch, this previously unresponsive child started to smile, then followed directions and within minutes, clung to Loran. The mother watched us as her baby boy peed uncontrollably on her, the hot liquid dripping all the way down her back and skirt, creating a puddle behind her worn, green sandals as she tried to explain her needs to us. The troubled baby screamed disturbing, high-pitched shrieks, demanding to be fed.
I cannot imagine waking to her life every day.
She watched confusedly as everyone argued about how and when we could help the little girl, some of the men forcefully grabbing the child in typical African manner. The mama produced a letter of recommendation from a regional disability center for treatment in Goma. Finally, we gave her transport money to get to the hospital.
To me, she is an example of selfless sacrifice for the good of her family at whatever cost to her, a classy quality that often permeates this society. Women like her have my respect, however, I mourn for her above anything. Is there not something we can do to help women like her engage in their lives with dignity- as women, as mothers, as human beings? How did someone like her end up with so much trouble, with so little opportunity?
My heart suffocated, I watched as she balanced all her belongings on her head- a pot and a pan wrapped in a big cloth- and, the baby still strapped to her back, her skirt still soaked, she lifted her little daughter onto her shoulders, her other child trailing behind her as she made her way up the path. Maybe with some hope renewed, yet her problems, in essence, unchanged.
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