May I have the pleasure of introducing you to three special people in my life...
Tate
Tate (grandmother in Swahili) is an ancient woman who is also a fistula patient. Her body has been weaken
ed and emaciated by years of suffering and hard labor, but she is a dear person. Even when people steal her little bag of soap while she does other chores, she does not display bitterness.
The day that Chelsie and I returned from Rwanda after the attacks in and around Goma in late October, the first thing we did was to visit the women at the transit center at the HEAL hospital. They laughed and danced, celebrating that we were back, that we had not abandoned them. We played ball with some of the younger, louder women; talked with the children about school and how they felt when they were hiding under their beds listening to the gunshots; we joked with the older women about life and the process of existing. We also made the rounds to the post-op rooms for fistula patients, where Tate was recovering. As we were catching with up with Tate and getting to know the newer patients, Tate reached over and started playing with my hair. The other women gasped at her audacity to touch a white person’s hair. She glared at them with daring eyes and told them in a stern voice, “I’m her grandmother. She is one of us.” Then she turned to me and informed me, “I’m going to braid your hair. Sit on the ground.” Obediently, I eased myself in between the two plastic-encased mattresses on their simple, chipped aluminum bed frames, trying not to wonder when was the last time they were cleaned. Calmly, with wrinkled hands and decades of experience, Tate proceeded to braid my hair. The rest of the women sat comfortably around us, another barrier being broken forever between us. Although my braid looked beautiful, my spirit was lifted by this undeserved grandmother’s love.
Cristina
About a week ago, I was visiting some of the mamas in their living quarters. This particular day, I happened t
o be teaching them how to use my camera, and they were giggling hysterically at the pictures they were capturing. One of the young fistula patients walked into the room and when she saw me, she urged me to come and see something. The Mama took her newborn from her friend’s arms and put the baby in my arms. “Majina yako!” she exclaimed. Surprised, I asked, “you named her Cristina?” She nodded proudly as I held this beautiful little baby; my heart warmed all over as the infant stared deep into my eyes. The mother grabbed my camera and took this picture of my namesake.
Helena (Evira)
Helena you already know… she has received a few name changes since the time we met her in the middle of the road in Masisi, unable to walk and stiff to stretch her legs. She has now been at the handicap center, through the support of HEAL Africa’s “Children Like Us” program for children with disabilities. As she has been receiving nutrition, physical therapy, play therapy and care, she has gained much strength. The doctors estimate that in two or three more months, Helena will be walking completely on her own. Her mother beams with joy and pride as she describes how little Helena now sits like a normal person on a chair, how she can lift herself up, and how she has even started walking on her own if she can lean on a wall. Helena herself shines as she exhausts herself in her efforts to show me that she can even jump if I am walking with her! Yes, Helena will walk.
Tate (grandmother in Swahili) is an ancient woman who is also a fistula patient. Her body has been weaken
ed and emaciated by years of suffering and hard labor, but she is a dear person. Even when people steal her little bag of soap while she does other chores, she does not display bitterness.The day that Chelsie and I returned from Rwanda after the attacks in and around Goma in late October, the first thing we did was to visit the women at the transit center at the HEAL hospital. They laughed and danced, celebrating that we were back, that we had not abandoned them. We played ball with some of the younger, louder women; talked with the children about school and how they felt when they were hiding under their beds listening to the gunshots; we joked with the older women about life and the process of existing. We also made the rounds to the post-op rooms for fistula patients, where Tate was recovering. As we were catching with up with Tate and getting to know the newer patients, Tate reached over and started playing with my hair. The other women gasped at her audacity to touch a white person’s hair. She glared at them with daring eyes and told them in a stern voice, “I’m her grandmother. She is one of us.” Then she turned to me and informed me, “I’m going to braid your hair. Sit on the ground.” Obediently, I eased myself in between the two plastic-encased mattresses on their simple, chipped aluminum bed frames, trying not to wonder when was the last time they were cleaned. Calmly, with wrinkled hands and decades of experience, Tate proceeded to braid my hair. The rest of the women sat comfortably around us, another barrier being broken forever between us. Although my braid looked beautiful, my spirit was lifted by this undeserved grandmother’s love.
Cristina
About a week ago, I was visiting some of the mamas in their living quarters. This particular day, I happened t
o be teaching them how to use my camera, and they were giggling hysterically at the pictures they were capturing. One of the young fistula patients walked into the room and when she saw me, she urged me to come and see something. The Mama took her newborn from her friend’s arms and put the baby in my arms. “Majina yako!” she exclaimed. Surprised, I asked, “you named her Cristina?” She nodded proudly as I held this beautiful little baby; my heart warmed all over as the infant stared deep into my eyes. The mother grabbed my camera and took this picture of my namesake.Helena (Evira)
Helena you already know… she has received a few name changes since the time we met her in the middle of the road in Masisi, unable to walk and stiff to stretch her legs. She has now been at the handicap center, through the support of HEAL Africa’s “Children Like Us” program for children with disabilities. As she has been receiving nutrition, physical therapy, play therapy and care, she has gained much strength. The doctors estimate that in two or three more months, Helena will be walking completely on her own. Her mother beams with joy and pride as she describes how little Helena now sits like a normal person on a chair, how she can lift herself up, and how she has even started walking on her own if she can lean on a wall. Helena herself shines as she exhausts herself in her efforts to show me that she can even jump if I am walking with her! Yes, Helena will walk.
1 comment:
What beautiful stories. Thank you for sharing your amazing experiences with us!
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