Sunday, October 11th, 2009
Today was a day that shook me to my core. I don’t know how often it is that a day can fundamentally change your perspective on life…but I imagine it doesn’t happen often. Today it happened. It was the first day I cried in Africa. What I witnessed was something I never signed up for…something I never expected…it just happened.
The day started innocuously enough with Emily making “E is for Emily – Omelets” (derived from the movie “V is for Vendetta”– it’s a piece of toast with a hole cut in the middle, an egg in the whole and the entire mess tossed in a pan) for everyone. It was quite delicious.
The prior night my friend Baati had invited me to come to church with her. She’s Pentecostal and I’m Catholic…but I agreed to go since I am constantly looking to expose myself to new experiences and meet people from different walks of life. I travelled into Kampala with Maggie who was going into the city to satisfy a craving for Indian food (hey, when you want it you want it). On the way in we argued about my side project, “Kristmas in Kampala” whereby I will fundraise from my friends, family and coworkers back home and buy the orphans and refugees of the Ggaba slums Christmas presents and use the remainder to subsidize Moshin’s (the teacher in the Ggaba slums) rent for the classroom (it costs 300,000 UsH / month ($150)). Maggie argued that giving kids presents would teach them to rely on mzungus and perpetuate the stereotype that mzungus are simply wealthy benefactors. I argued back that you can’t always look at things so black-and-white…there are grey areas with Christmas presents…things don’t always have to be viewed through the sharp cross-hairs of capitalism. We agreed to disagree.
I got off at Old Taxi Park and asked around until I got to KPC (Kampala Pentecostal Church). When I walked in I thought I’d mistakenly walked into a rock concert – the entire place was BUMPING! There were huge screens, a band, guitar players, a choir, light and visual effects. The people were so passionate as they sang and danced and raised their hands…VERY different than Catholic Church. It was beautiful. Again it showed me the power that music can have over people.
Baati found me and took me back to her friends and family who were seated in the top / rear of the church.
No sooner had I sat down than the announcer blurted out, “If it’s your first time here stand up!”
Baati made me stand up and everyone clapped. Funny stuff. Someone came over and handed me a brochure and shook my hand.
Next we had to compliment the person next to us. I turned to Fiona, the girl standing to my left. “Umm – you have a nice shirt.”
“Umm, you’re tall.”
Yeah we were real imaginative.
Then we had to get in groups of three and pray out loud. I prayed for the safety of Kerin and William. So – Kerin and William – you got Pentecostal prayers comin’ atcha from Uganda!
Afterwards there were a lot of “church-ish” things (homilies, readings…etcetera…). Nothing too crazy.
I was amazed at how spiritual Baati is.
“I’ve never met someone our age so religious.” I said to her.
“It gives the world meaning. Otherwise life is just random and there is no justice for certain people. It makes things make sense.”
Okay – fair enough. Little did I understand how much these words would come into play later.
We walked outside and Baati turned to me, “You ready to go to the childrens cancer ward?”
“Huh?”
“I told you about it last night!” She exclaimed. “You said you’d come?”
Wow – maybe one too many drinks.
Baati apparently runs a church “cell” whereby members of her parish get together and discuss issues on Tuesday nights. One of the “cell members” volunteers at Kampala’s poorest terminal cancer children ward. She invited Baati once and Baati kept coming back.
“C’mon – they’d love a mzungu visitor.”
Coming to Africa was planned. Meeting Baati and going to a children’s terminal cancer center wasn’t. It felt like I was being asked to go for a reason.
I agreed to go.
We drove to La Bonita (her father is Uganda’s most prominent lawyer and owns La Bonita which is Kampala’s best theatre + restaurant).
I met some of Baati’s family. Her father has 3 wives and she has 14 sisters. I spoke with one of them.
“How do the sisters from different mothers get along?”
“Oh – well all get along great!” She exclaimed. “The more the merrier.”
I guess their family is an example of polygamy that actually works.
THEN we drove to the cancer ward. It was 10 minutes outside Kampala. The hospital itself looked like a dilapidated longhouse. There were people laying outside in the dirt. As we walked closer the smell hit me. It was tough. I kept walking.
· A woman appeared from behind the building. In her arms was a small child with a stomach distended maybe two feet beyond where it should have. I watched as the woman layed him down. He moaned in pain. His skin was as thin as paper. I could see his shallow breathing. His heart beating.
· Another small child sat, blankly staring at the floor. People spoke to her but she didn’t respond. She had an IV drip sticking in her arm.
· A child with a gauze the size of a softball stuck to its face. Baati was kneeling on the floor, caressing the mother’s arm. She told me to walk over and kneel down. I did. She pulled the bandage off the child’s face. There was a growth the size of a tennis ball on his eye socket. The skin underneath had dripped down and the entire left hand size of the child’s face was grossly deformed. The mother told me she didn’t have enough money to pay for the child’s surgery. I asked how much it was…100,000 UsH ($50). $50 to remove a cancerous tumor on her baby’s face and she couldn’t afford it. The day before I’d spent 150,000 Ush on a pair of jeans. Cancer > Jeans. These are the kinds of decisions that haunt me and the other volunteers. Whats more important? Babies getting malignant, cancerous tumors from their face removed…or a new pair of skinny jeans to wear to the bar. We all make decisions about money…but here you can see the juxtaposition with trenchant clarity.
· A child completely covered in lumps…big and small all over its body. He was crying…he was in pain. I could see it in his eyes. Someone gave him a sweet and I watched as he struggled to peel the wrapper off. He stopped crying long enough to eat the sweets. I had to walk away.
· This was the one that kept me up last night…there was a baby laying in bed with its face away from me. The mother was bending over the baby, rubbing its arm and whispering Lugandan in its ear. The baby’s body looked normal. I walked to the other side of the bed……..the babies eyes had been removed. In the sockets, behind the deflated eyelids was exposed flesh. The mother looked at me and then back down at her baby. I said I was sorry and walked away. I couldn’t sleep last night because the vision of the hallow eyes and the exposed flesh tormented me. It was really upsetting.
· Two girls that were amputees - they had opposing legs cut off and shared a pair of crocs between them. One spoke swahili only – she wore a neon green shirt. The other long white dress with a flower in the center - " oh you have a pretty dress." She smiled. “That’s the prettiest dress I’ve ever seen.” She smiled again. “They don’t make dresses that pretty in America.” I said. She looked at me confused…she showed me the tag…MADE IN USA. I laughed. “Well – they make them there, but they’re too pretty to wear there.” That answer seemed to please her.
· There was another kid with a grossly distended stomach walking around with a baby on his back - naked. The baby was grabbing and smiling at me.
· A kid with a bulge bloody bandage on his neck. They had just removed a tumor. He couldn’t talk. They didn’t know what type of cancer it was.
Then we walked to the adult section:
· I met a father who was dying of cancer. He was there with his wife and daughter. “Thank you for being here.” He said. I couldn’t help but feel like I wasn’t really doing anything at all
· Someone with terminal Multiple myeloma
· Someone with bone bone cancer – her entire arm was dramatically swollen.
· Man with a soft-ball sized tumor sticking out of his chest.
At one point one of Baati’s sisters came over.
“Come quick.” She said.
“What?”
“Someone over there wants the mzungu to bless him.
…huh?...
She grabbed my hand and walked me over to a man, breathing shallowly and rapidly. There was a white towel on his chest. His eyes were wild. He struggled to speak. He was in pain. Death was knocking at his door and he knew it.
“Pray for me.” He said.
I said a prayer in my head.
Baati’s sister nudged me. “He wants you to say one out loud.”
I looked at him. Again, physically close but WORLD’s apart.
I didn’t know what to say. I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“Whats your name?” I asked.
“My name is Joseph.” He said.
Bombshell.
“That’s my name too.” I mumbled, shocked.
“Maybe you were sent here for me. Pray for me Joseph.”
He couldn’t control his body. He started flatulating.
“Dear God. “ I said. “Please heal Joseph. And if you can’t heal him please take away the pain and let him be in peace.”
“What is your rationale for God healing me?” He asked me.
I didn’t know what to say. “I don’t have any rationale. All I can do is pray for you Joseph.”
He shook his head. “Okay – thank you.”
As I walked away I looked back at him. He was wrenching around in the bed. Someone was holding down his chest. I stumbled out of the clinic. I felt dizzy. Everyone I’d just met, children and all, were going to die. They were going to die and the only question was how long they’d have to suffer in that sickeningly disgusting place where death hung in the air like a cruel mist.
I walked outside…away from the smells and into the parking lot. I’d had enough. The kid with the distended stomach, who was holding a baby followed me. He had a white wire that had been bent into a circle. We rolled it back and forth in the parking lot.
The two girls with the amputated legs came out.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Good.” One of the girls pointed to the boy throwing the white wire back to me. “We at least have beds. He sleeps in the back in the dirt. There is no room for him.”
The poorest of the poor (people I didn’t even visit) live behind the cancer ward. Disfigured. Helpless. Hopeless.
“I repeated my question to the girl. “How do YOU feel? When was the operation?”
“They removed my leg Thursday.”
“How do you feel?”
“I miss my leg, but the pain is gone.” She smiled. “When you come back will you bring me rings and cars and purses?”
I smiled. “Sure.”
“Will you come back?”
It seems like that’s a common question with kids in Uganda. After saying you’ll come back they make you confirm it. Its like they have lived their whole life waiting for people to let them down.
Finally Baati and her family came out.
We drove away – she looked at me. “Now do you understand why I am so religious? Sometimes it’s the only thing you have in life.”
I nodded.
“Do you know why I took you here today?” She asked me.
I shook my head.
“You’ll know one day.”
“It is better to light one candle than to curse the darkness.”
Powerful stuff, Joe. Thank you for writing it.
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