World AIDS DAY - Bedbugs and Skittles

World AIDS DAY
December 1, 2014

Today is World AIDS Day.  This morning I think about the millions of AIDS orphans and specifically, those I have come to love.  This is an excerpt from a journal I kept while in Lesotho in March of 2012.  I travelled with a group of 10 friends:

Bedbugs and Skittles

Ontario is 15,000 km from Lesotho.   The village of Tlhakuli nestled in the mountains outside of Butha Buthe seems like it is on a different planet altogether.   Many of the small sustenance farms that once thrived on these hills have been abandoned, the younger generation settling in more urban areas in search of an easier life, the older generation long since passed.  One hundred years ago these thatched roofed huts and sandstone structures were clustered together around small courtyards and open gardens.  Stone walkways lead to buildings occupying the next ridge above the others all secured beautifully by sculptured retaining walls.  These were villages and compounds that teamed with life and many generations of the same family.   Children played along worn paths and up steep embankments with donkeys, goats, chickens and herd dogs.  I would imagine that the sounds of people in constant relationship echoed everywhere.  HIV decimated these villages, the families and this beautiful way of life. 

Left behind, the AIDS orphan in numbers exceeding 18 million in sub Saharan Africa alone.

 Tlhakuli is the first Foster Home created by Pastor James and the Apostolic Faith Mission Social Development Division (AFMSDD).  The land and buildings were long abandoned when discovered by Pastor James and members of the church congregation who gathered together the supplies needed to renovate this compound.  Thatched roofs were rebuilt, stonewalls grouted, inner walls freshly painted and  floors covered with thin linoleum.  The foster mother who runs this home, had recently lost her daughter to AIDS and was about to leave Lesotho in search for work as a domestic in South Africa to support her daughter’s three children when she was asked to take over this remote piece of property and care for the foster children that would soon arrive.

One of the outbuildings has two large rooms with 8 mattresses on the floor.  It is here that visitors stay.   We had been preparing for this night for weeks.   We wanted to experience first hand what life was like for the AIDS orphan living in rural Lesotho with no electricity, no indoor heat or water, very meagre furnishings and very basic food.   We knew that previous visitors had been exposed to bed bugs and we had been extensively educated about how to avoid exposure to them and most of all, how to avoid carrying them away in our clothing a luggage.

We packed an extra set of clothing, water and minimal toiletries into large, sealed Zip Lock Bags.  The idea was to seal the clothing we wore to bed into the bag and leave them outside our bungalow the next day in order to avoid an infestation at home base.  Many of us were quite unsettled and two had decided not to stay overnight.

The trek into Tlhakuli was rugged and beautiful.  Small mountain villages dotted the road as we climbed.  The last leg of the journey was too steep and rough for the our vehicle.   We set out the rest of the way by foot.  It was very hot.  We must have been quite a sight, these middle-aged, Canadian women with their neatly packed plastic bags.  We tried to sing as we climbed but the altitude and exertion left us too winded for more that a few short verses.  We passed a small pond with a willow tree on the bank, it’s branches tipped to the water’s surface.  We passed old village huts some occupied and some left empty.  The last part of the climb was the steepest and took us to a decaying retaining wall and the narrow entrance of the foster home compound.  Four small, rectangular stone buildings and one rondavel faced a small inner courtyard.  A small space between two of the buildings lead to an awkward set of uneven steps that opened out to the most beautiful panoramic mountain view.

The smallest building of this inner courtyard was the kitchen.   The longest, a storage room with various broken chairs all pulled out into the sunlight for the comfort of the guests.  The rondavel served as the housemother’s bedroom, which she shared with the smallest foster child, all of the kitchen supplies and wash basins.  Her bed was tucked to one side, old, rough, disintegrating.   Two of the children shared the next stone building.  A set of rough, metal bunk beds filled most of the room, their mattresses thin and musty, the bed covers meager and threadbare.  An old plywood table served as a desk set to one corner with a misshapen shelf suspended from the ceiling, holding an array of broken and tattered school supplies.  The last building, also small and rectangular had a double bed.  The third child that shared this room had the misfortune of sleeping on a thin piece of foam settled over a metal folding table.  Lord only knows what these dark, damp rooms are like when the frigid temperatures settle in throughout July and August.

Mme Mamatseliso loves these children.  She has devoted her life to them.  Her name means ‘Mother of Comfort’.  Telang is 14, Maope and Kali, 13.  Mosela is 11.  Makhaute is 10 and Mahlohonolo is 9.  Three of these children are her biological grandchildren but no one can remember which are hers and which aren’t.  She loves each one with the same relentless maternal fervor.

We sat in a stupefied state in this surreal world in which we’d landed.  We listened to Pastor James tell us the story of these orphans and the loving home this grandmother had created for them.   He told us of how Maope had been playing with paraffin by an open fire when his clothes lit up in flames setting his body on fire.   Of how a call miraculously made it’s way to the Pastor and how he set out under a blanket of darkness to this mountaintop to take Maope to the hospital where he convalesced for a week, his burns now barely visible.

He talked of Mahlohonolo the youngest child orphaned by AIDS and now carrying the virus herself who recently spent two weeks in hospital after the HIV medications she was taking lowered her hemoglobin to less than 40, a life threatening level.

He described his vision for this home and many others across the country.  This, the first of nine foster homes now in operation supported by several AFM congregations and Bracelet of Hope and with our help, the first of many, many more.

And as we listened, Mme Mamatseliso silently served us canned drinks on a broken tray.

One by one, the family of orphans arrived home.  A one hour walk over rugged terrain in brightly colored school uniforms and tattered shoes.  Each entered the courtyard and each politely shook our hands and welcomed us.  Shy, respectful, demure, these are well cared for, well mannered kids.  As quickly as they arrived, they disappeared to various parts of the compound, school uniforms exchanged for afterschool clothing and then off to various chores.  This home is lucky.  Water flows from a large green cistern situated outside the kitchen.  One child washed dishes, another started washing clothes in one of several large basins, another started dinner preparations.

Karen Hand, one of our Bracelet of Hope Board Members had the brilliant idea of giving each child a digital camera to allow them to take pictures of their world.  The cameras were donated by her husband’s company, FlexITy. We tried to gather the children up to hand each a camera.  There was intense interest but we had some difficulty pulling them away from their chores.   

With some gentle encouragement and permission from Mme Mamatseliso, they were off and running.  It was akin to a haphazard scavenger hunt.  Pure joy, start to finish.  These kids took off in all directions, squeals of delight and peals of laughter.  It did not take long for most of the women of our group to join in.  The kids went to every corner of the compound and then down the mountain and back up with many other kids in tow.

As darkness settled in, our anxiety peaked.  We had already moved our gear into the guesthouse, which by now was completely dark.  Candles lit the dim interior:   cracked and chipped walls a bright turquoise blue, dirty, disintegrating curtains the same blue with stripes of bright yellow and red intermixed.  Cracked and crumbling window wells, holes in the suspended ceiling, brightly colored, cracked and patchy linoleum with cold cement floor exposed, an old stove circa 1920’s and couches that looked like the bedbugs lived here before moving onto the beds.  In the larger rooms, our mattresses were already laid out with clean linen, pillows, pillowcases, sheets and warm, clean blankets.  Those of us lucky enough to sleep on the mattresses closest to the walls were exposed to deep crevices in the cement, which of course, I imagined were teaming with all sorts of insect life.

We piled into the kitchen with it’s stove and couches.  Dinner was fried cabbage with Pape.  While we sat, the orphaned siblings of this home served us one by one.  Fed and content, the kids snuggled up on warm laps.  We sang to them.  They sang to us.  We prayed together.  The candles flickered and the fear of bedbugs diminished.  The sickest child fell asleep.  Our plates were cleared.

Humbled and honored by their love, their tenacity, their resilience and their hospitality.

On of us had smuggled in bags of skittles.  They were divided evenly among open and eager hands.

Nothing like a well fed child snuggling up on a warm adult lap with a handful of brightly colored skittles.  Warms the heart.  One child entered the room late after clearing the dishes. The others were asked to share.  Their generosity was immediate and over the top.


They sang one final hymn to say goodnight.  We started the slow and deliberate process of getting ready for sleep in this surreal place on this strange mountain in the dark.  We brushed our teeth outside and looked up to a brilliant display of stars and constellations serenaded by the bewitching sound of large African crickets.  Just doesn’t get any better than this.  We were all quite pensive, contemplative.  Skittles, generosity and hospitality had won the day.   The two who were most hesitant to stay, just couldn’t leave.  They came totally unprepared to sleep with just the clothes on their backs and a small purse.  Seeing children rise above such adversity inspired courage.  We slept tight, with the bedbugs, and no one worse off for the experience. 

A Group of Thoughtful Committed Citizens

       "It is from the numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped.  Each time a man ( or woman ) stands up for an ideal or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he (she) sends a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current which can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance."  Robert Kennedy

This is a powerpoint image that I use in all my powerpoint presentations.  My son fancied it up for me a while back.  Imagine the visual:  It starts with an empty map and then one by one, starting with North America then South America, moving east to Europe and Asia, each number lands on the map.  Then there is a pause....... and a universal gasp in the crowd as '25 million' falls into place in sub-Saharan Africa.  That the incidence of HIV/AIDS in Africa so outnumbers any other continent is astonishing.

I know what some of you might be thinking.  It's Africa.  They are always desperate, a continent riddled with problems:  Disease, famine, corrupt governments, immense poverty.  One of the most important things I have learned in the last 10 years of trying my hand at international development work is that Africa is not helpless and Africans are no different than we are.  Our affluence, our opportunities, our vast capabilities all evolved from our birthplace.  We were born in resource rich countries that adopted democracy as their form of government at conception.  We live, breath, ignore and take for granted, democracy and all of the rights and privileges it bestows on each of it's citizens.

So, how did Africa end up in such a desperate state?  Over centuries, the continent has lived within the mightiest walls of oppression.  Bear with me.  This history lesson will be quick and painless.

Africa is extremely rich in natural resources and human labour power.  For almost a thousand years, first for the benefit of Muslim countries and then for the benefit of European countries, millions of Africans were traded into slavery.  

Starting in the 1600's, European countries began building overseas empires and economies mostly in the new world ( North America and South America).  These new world empires were built on the backs of 15 million African slaves who were shipped across the Atlantic to work on massive plantations that produced sugar, coffee, cotton and tobacco. The African continent was essentially bled of it's human resources.

The export of so many people created a demographic disaster.  Entire ethnic groups, 45 in all, were taken to the Americas during the trade.  Individuals, families,economies, political structures and cultures were destroyed leaving Africa permanently disadvantaged compared to other parts of the world.

 The slave trade has aptly been named the "African Holocuast".  Africans call it the Maafa meaning "great disaster" in Swahili.

   "the morally monstrous destruction of human possibility involved redefining African humanity to the world, poisoning past, present and future relations with others who only know us through this stereotyping and thus damaging the truly human relations among peoples."  The slave trade "constituted the destruction of culture, language, religion and human possibility." Professor Maulana Karenga

The mightiest walls of oppression.......

By the 1860's all European countries had abolished the slave trade starting with Britain and the well known British abolitionist, William Wilberforce.  But oppression did not end here.  Africa, now reduced to a tiny fraction of it's previous strength and integrity was left globally vulnerable to further oppression and exploitation.

At the Berlin Conference in 1885, 13 European states and the United States gathered to settle the political partitioning of this vulnerable continent.  They gathered to decide who should have what.  Under the auspices of promoting peace in African countries in conflict, the conference attendees divided the African continent into new geopolitical boundaries.  Three centuries of slave trade were followed by a century of brutal colonial rule that left Africa bereft of educated citizens and leaders and deprived of basic social, educational and public health infrastructures; new nations with new borders, under-developed and in conflict with one another.  The people of Africa became sitting ducks for global health pandemics, economic insecurity, famine and extreme poverty.

A tinder box waiting to be ignited.  The AIDS virus was the match.  The resultant inferno has left 25 million people infected in sub Saharan Africa and created a human catastrophe that is globally unprecedented.

Our free, democratic and affluent society is our birthplace, but it is not our birth right.  We are who we are as a country and a continent, in part, because we contributed to those mighty walls of oppression.  We were part of that oppressive force.  There are many moral and just reasons to now reshape history. The shame of centuries of oppression need not be part of the justification for addressing it's profound, prolonged  and deeply destructive consequences.  But the shame of it certainly makes me think.

What will it take to re-shape history?  Robert Kennedy was right.  You and I can re-shape history armed with the belief that we can and we must.  Understanding that we have the tools and the intellectual property to make massive changes in countries devastated by the HIV virus.  Knowing that in each of us there is a deep desire to stand up against injustice and that when we do, the contagion that is created inspires so many others to follow.  The mightiest walls of oppression are no match for our collective and committed strength and power and determination.

Reshaping Relationships, Redefining History

Follow the story in the next few blogs and I will tell you how we will reshape history.  One glorious relationship, one brick at a time.

Dr. Anne-Marie Zajdlik

MD CCFP O. Ont.

Founder Bracelet of Hope

One Country AIDS Free

This is my dad

Willem Frederick Roepman

I will be 51 years old this week.  I was just watching the news.  There is a fellow who has Multiple Sclerosis (MS) who just completed a 100 km walk in Nova Scotia trying to raise funds and awareness.  He is 53.  He made a comment that struck me.  He said that he has lived a good life.  His MS is rapidly progressive.  His walk was scheduled to take place in the spring of 2015 but in all likelihood, he will be in a wheelchair by then.  I admire his grit and determination but I admire his perspective even more.  From his point of view, his life has been full and while he still has control, he will try to contribute in some small way to the lives of others affected by MS.  He has taken a long look at his life, stepped out of the daily focus of living it, and from this new perspective, has deemed it all good.

He is only two years older than me.  

I just spent the last hour trudging through the farm fields behind my house, grateful to still be leaping the furrows plowed deep by farmers who have finished up their annual harvest.  Well, leaping may be stretching things a bit but I am not understating the gratitude.  

I talk to God while I walk.  Today, I just cried.  This will be the first birthday I will celebrate without my dad.   Please.  I am 51.  I should be at a point in my life where being orphaned is entirely natural and expected.  But I had a really good dad and there is a part of me that will always be his daughter; a part of me that will always grieve my loss; a part of me that looks forward to being in the same time and place as he is once again.   

My Dad was born in Dieman, just outside of Amsterdam in 1934.  He was the second of 10 children.  My grandfather worked at a wallpaper manufacturing company in Amsterdam. The company’s owners were wealthy and Jewish.  During World War 11, the Germans took over the company and moved it to Rotterdam, forcing the family to move.  The Germans invaded Holland on May 17, 1940.  Rotterdam was bombed and leveled.  It would be five years before the entire country was liberated.  Three hundred thousand Dutch citizens were killed in the war and seventy thousand more died from malnutrition and lack of access to health care.

At the start of the German occupation, my dad was 5 and at the end, he was 10.  He spoke very little about the war while we were growing up but in the spring of 2013, I sensed that he was failing.  I sat down with him, pen and paper in hand and asked him to tell me the story of his life.   He remembered stealing food and belongings off of the bodies of dead German soldiers.  He remembered watching a group of neighbors being lined up and shot after one of them was accused of stealing.  He remembered the harsh winter of 1945 during which many died of malnutrition.  He described it as the worst year of the war and the coldest winter of the war.  His family survived by eating tulip bulbs.  He told me how Europe was destroyed by the war and in Holland there was nothing left:  No factories, no businesses, no economy.  Hundreds of thousands immigrated to North America.

At 19, my dad was one of them.  I asked him why he left and he said,  “There was not enough room in the house for all of his siblings and there was not enough food.”  He left to find his fortune in Canada and to earn enough to help support his parents and siblings.  And that is exactly what he did.

It was in this country that he built his own life and started his own family.  We had it all.   The house in suburbia, the cool new car, the tent trailer, the lawn mower, the vegetable garden and a television.   We rode our bikes everywhere and played with the neighborhood kids until the street lights came on.  We watched the Wonderful World of Disney on Sunday nights and the Waltons on Saturday nights. Dad was a scout leader and a hockey coach.  He poured his energy into anything we were passionate about and he encouraged us to find that passion and grow it.

He followed my mother to mass on Sunday’s and watched Hockey Night in Canada on Saturdays.  He loved provincial parks.  We spent summers in almost every one in the province.  He had us in a canoe by the time we were four.  He loved to hike up sand dunes and play in the waves.  

He loved classical music and he played it far more than we appreciated it.  He loved to watch a Christmas Carol on Christmas Eve just before attending midnight mass.  He loved the scene where Ebanezer flies down the stairs on Christmas morning in a state of absolute euphoria, his night-shirt whipping above his thighs.  Dad would belly laugh every time he watched it.  That transformation from a state of misery and gloom to one of joy, fascinated him.  

Since his death, 11 months ago, I see my life from a different perspective.  I have walked through a deep and dark valley, letting go of so much as I plodded through.  I think that my journey through the toughest part of grief and loss is over.  I am climbing out but the world looks very different from this side of that valley. 

I too have lived a very, very good life.  I am older and wiser, battle worn and scarred.  But in the palm of my hand I hold a beautiful life:   the strength and encouragement of good parents, the golden moments of every relationship, the joy of my youth, the years of education and work, the laughter and joy of my children, the love of a good husband and the grace of a great God.  I hold all that and see it for what it truly is;  the life of a blessed person.

And as long as I can leap, I will give it back.

From my open palms to the lives of others.

https://ca.news.yahoo.com/video/nova-scotia-man-ms-completed-001916844.html

For Thee, I will Stand on Guard

  I drove past the cenotaph in downtown Guelph tonight.  I have driven by this corner thousands of times over the last 25 years.  To and from work.   This is the first time I have really taken note of it.  It was brilliant.  Four soldiers stood at four corners under glowing spot lights.  Young, strong and still, their heads bowed, their hands folded on top of long, straight guns.  No motion.  Solemn,reverent and eternal.  Nameless figures.  Soldiers bound by courage and purpose.
A poignant vigil.

Strong, proud and free.

Thank you

A day of rest

Lineo- three weeks old

.

"I am convinced being generous is a better way to live.  I am convinced having compassion is a better way to live.  Fighting against famine, debt, poverty, oppression, despair, death, slaughter, injustice, loneliness and suffering for all mankind is a better way to live."  R. Bell


Two years ago, Bracelet of Hope held their first annual World AIDS Day event.  November has become an exhausting month as our small team of people work day and night to prepare for this event.  We are deep into the thick of it again this year.  Today I woke up and felt exhausted.  I have days like these, not many, but every once in a while and usually at least one in November.  At that first event I told the story of a child that I treated in Lesotho who died of AIDS.  I'd like to tell it again today.  His name was Lefa.

 Originally told to an audience of 600 on December 1, 2012:

My name is Lefa Kamoka.  I am nine years old.    It is very hard to breath and I have a headache.  I can feel the warmth of my mother’s lap and her arms wrapped around me.  She looks worried.  She always looks worried but today it is more than that.  What is it?  It might be hopelessness.  I can feel her fear.  I think she knows.   I have been sick for a very long time.  I do not remember being well or feeling good but now I can’t breath.  I can’t get the air in and I am so tired.  I rock back and forth, back and forth with my hand on my head hoping there might be some relief……but there is none.  She holds me tighter.  My legs and arms are thin.  I can see the spaces between my ribs.  She is frantic now.   She must know.  I …… know.

I was born in Lesotho and have lived here all my life.   My brother and sister have gone before me.  I am the last of my siblings.  Without me, my mother will be alone.  I don’t remember being happy.  I have never played.  There has never been a time of peace or joy in our lives.   Somehow, I know this is not right.  Children should play.  Everyday should bring joy but I was born in Lesotho and here, many children suffer. 

If my mother had received one pill when she knew I was coming, I would have been well.   Just one pill and my life would have been normal but in Africa and here in Lesotho, it is hard to get this medicine and so, my life will be short, very short. 

I struggle to live.  I struggle to breath.  My mother brought me here where the doctors are.  It took us hours to get here.  She walked with me wrapped on her back.   Two doctors now look at me.  They are white and from a place in the West.  One of them is on her knees in front of me.  She holds my hand and looks into my eyes.  She is worried too.  Now, I am afraid.  I look up to the doctor who is standing beside her.    They look at each other.  He drops his head and shakes it back and forth.   They must know too.  My mother starts to cry. 

I feel their fear but the pain now consumes me.  I close my eyes.  I rock back and forth, back and forth……I cannot breath.  My name is Lefa Kamoka and I was born in Lesotho.

In Beautiful Lesotho.

1.9 million people

300,000 infected with HIV

250,000 AIDS orphans

Many of these orphans are born with HIV as a result of vertical transmission, the transmission of the virus from mother to newborn at the time of delivery

50% of the children born with HIV who do not receive treatment will be dead by the age of two.

80 % by the age of five.

They often die after their parents and in great agony

One pill given at the first contraction virtually prevents transmission

That pill costs $2.99

Lefa’s face is seared into my heart and my soul.  His eyes never leave me.  I will never forget.   On my knees I witnessed this child’s suffering and I will never forget.    Together, my colleague and I have collectively accumulated over 20 years of post-secondary school education, 10 of those from Canadian medical schools considered among the best in the world.   The best the world has to offer in science and medical technology…….. and there we were helpless, absolutely impotent to do anything for this beautiful, anguished child.  Nothing.  We sent him home to die with a small packet of Tylenol.  That’s all there was on that day, in beautiful Lesotho. 

God forgive us.  How did we get here?  In a world of unprecedented wealth, unprecedented advancements in science and technology, how can Lefa and all of the other forlorn, neglected, impoverished and abandoned children of the world be left to die?  I looked up to the God I love and asked, “Why?”   

His answer: 

“You are my hands and feet.  Take action, nothing is impossible.

 To whom much is given, much is expected”

I truly believe this.  Now, two years later, I no longer ask "Why".   I just keep pushing towards the goal.  My hands, my feet have found the place where they must stand, where they need to encourage others to stand, where their work can help create a world in which children live lives that are healthy, joyful and free. 

But today, I will rest.

Anne-Marie
braceletofhope.ca