The mother, little girl and baby brother who carved permanent places in my heart (part II)

Eugenie is the mother’s name; she showed up at HEAL Africa a few days later with her disabled daughter Evira, and starving baby boy strapped to her back. Upon being consulted, she was referred to our disability program, Children Like Us, to get physical therapy. As usual in this region, they must remain in Goma for the duration of the treatment, as there is none in Masisi. They have no money to buy food, let alone travel back home. Lacking income to rent anywhere, the hospital grounds have become their home, as so common for the impoverished, but lucky, patients who succeed in arriving for medical treatment. She and the other women mix fuofou from the meager- and sometimes moldy- cornmeal donated by the World Food Program.
Within the first few days, Eugenie and I laughed as we figured out that not only is my Swahili very much in the learning stage, but that it is also her second language after her tribal tongue. Since she speaks no French, we are limited to communicating in our developing Swahili. She had asked me for money to buy food one day, at which I agreed to help her for one month on the condition that she come to the sewing classes at HEALing Arts to learn to sew. It was painfully obvious she has never learned any marketable skills in her life, nor received any education at all. I had to lead her by her hand into the room and introduce her to the head seamstresses the first day. I led her by the hand again the second day, as she timidly entered again into the busy, loud, orange room that has become a place of hope for the fistula patients waiting at the transit center. I had to insist every day for over a week that she show up, scolding her when she was absent. After several days, she finally passed the “sewing straight lines on paper” stage. Every time she mentions needing more food, I challenge her to earn her own money, since we pay for every item each woman sews.
This week, as I was working in HEALing Arts, Mama Eugenie eagerly showed me a beautiful coin purse that she had sewn all by herself- to perfection. I was beaming for her, my heart glowing to see her proud face and growing confidence at her accomplishment. She is sewing regularly now, and making friends with the community of women.
As for Evira and her baby brother, they have also carved their own special place in my heart. All I can say is that we mutually understand each other. Yes, me and a 9 year old girl with cerebral palsy and an 18-month old infant (whose severe malnutrition makes him seem half his age, except for his teeth), both of whom are constantly covered in food particles, slobber and who knows what else. We’re friends…
How the baby, still urgently suckling on his mother’s breast, laughs joyfully every time he sees me. We giggle together as he shrieks when I tickle his tiny body; his mother shyly smiling at the boy’s wriggling body on her back. Personally, my joy comes from seeing his mind more at peace these days, his behavior less erratically desperate. And Evira, how her face transforms into a shining smile when she sees me. How she crawls right up to me and leans her body heavily on my legs until I play a bit with her, scratch her back and make her smile. How she then proceeds to drag herself up by my legs and clothing until she stands upright on her weak limbs, reaches for my hands, her gentle eyes and toothy smile begging me to go for a walk with her. This week- the same week her mother successfully sewed a coin purse- we managed to make our way up the steps of HEALing Arts and slowly amble over to her mother, baby boy peacefully asleep on her back.
Even when I don’t see them in a day, I think about them every day. Maybe, for this one woman, her life can change. Maybe she will return with a girl who can walk, as she should have always been able to, had there been medical services in her war-torn homeland. Maybe Eugenie will return with a new sewing machine and become the neighborhood seamstress. Maybe she will one day teach other women and maybe even hire some of them to work for her. Maybe her little boy will grow up to be a strong soccer player, or an orthopedic surgeon. Maybe things can change.
Today, her daughter starts physical therapy.

The little girl who broke into my heart

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.

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.