Ahhh the fruits - of permaculture and relationships

Karibuni the progression of our Permaculture garden (refer to "Power of Permaculture" posting last month). It's amazing what a little rain and sun will do. Magic always happens under Mt. Meru...

Our corn is now chest-high. Note: we triple-dug the bed of corn on the far left and double-dug the row of corn on the right. You'll recognize the difference in allowing for roots to shoot farther down into the soil. Results: a healthier, taller plant.

Grow corn grow

Just a few weeks later (from opposite angle: triple-dug bed on right, double-dug bed on left)

Beans and greens

My most dedicated crew of kids wa bustanini still expanding the garden's rows based on the model Peter and gang established. Haba na haba hujaza kibaba.

In other news, a fully sponsored secretary student at the Vijana Center (recently renamed from Tumaini) who I'll refer to as Malaika for her privacy, confided in me several months ago about her mom being infected with AIDS. A single orphan (meaning she's lost one parent, her father), she shared this intimate information with me as we were unloading bikes from our latest container.

You would have laughed at the scene - imagine all of our 70 students and staff perspiring, lugging a hodge podge of bike parts and boxes of donated books on our heads or in our arms until we could find a solid resting place, all the while singing and laughing. In the midst of the chaos, I asked the afore-mentioned Malaika where she lived and how she traveled to/from school everyday. A simple question.

She responded that she walked one hour and half each way to school and home. She elaborated on how she lacked the fare for public transport or for lunch. Her mom couldn't provide that for her. "What does your mom do?," I inquired innocently. "My mom doesn't work," she said. "She's sick."

"Pole sana," I replied, a much more emphatic way in Swahili of saying I'm sorry. I looked her deeply in the eyes and could sense her hurt, her almost busting at the seams to divulge more. She glanced away, then down, to the side. After what seemed an eternity, her head slowly ascended again, and her lips parted, "Mama yangu anaishi na ugonjwa." Translated, what she said meant "my mom's living with the disease." This is how most Tanzanians refer to AIDS - "the disease." I knew what she was talking about all too well.

This disease is the same one that took my Uncle Scott's life. It's the same disease that kept my grandparents' and relatives' lips sealed out of shame and embarrassment. A disease that kills, the saying goes here. The disease that has no cure. The disease that keeps so many silent, when what we need the most is to talk about it, to be vulnerable with others. In being vulnerable, we can share one another's burden and pain so that comfort, peace and healing may come.

Of course, being open about such a taboo subject is easier said than done, especially in a culture where communication is a struggle, to say the least. In Tanzania, communication is referred to as "indirect." Direct communication or confrontation is all too rare; hence, the dire need for life skills - for improved communication, negotiation and decision-making skills.

This explains why I was so utterly amazed with Malaika's boldness in sharing with me. And there is no greater honor as a teacher, as a volunteer working to empower Tanzanian youth, than having one confide in you. This - to listen to and to be there for the Malaikas - is why I'm here. This is what I live for. Full stop.

She seemed a bit surprised herself when it came out of her mouth. "I can't believe I said that," she admitted a few minutes later. "I've never told anyone this," she continued. "I'm so glad you did," I affirmed in an effort to placate her. Ndiyo kazi yangu - that's my job.

Slowly, bit by bit, dakika by dakika, the door opened more and more; she continued to allow me in farther. Gently, I probed with questions like "So, how does your mom feel?"..."What are your mom's symptoms now?"..."Is there anyone else in your family who can help?"..."Can I come visit sometime soon?"

So, I did just that - I visited Malaika and her mom soon thereafter and found her description quite accurate: her mom was fatigued and burdened by a pretty painful eye infection and cyst festering above her pupil. Upon further investigation, I learned she was hardly sleeping due to the pain and inability to close her eye. I assume the infection and cyst are side effects of her weakening immune system, typical of AIDS victims. She had sought help over a year prior at KCMC (Any "3 Cups of Tea" readers out there? The author Greg Mortenson's father established this hospital in Moshi), which provided her with eye glasses to strengthen her eye muscles and a bottle of eye solution to lessen the infection's spread. I'm no doctor, though at times like these, I sure wish I was. More than anything.

Although I may not have an M.D., I did have the disposable income to travel to Moshi to procure more of this special eye solution and to have her glasses fixed, both of which have brought her great relief. I was relieved too, until I learned upon more inquiry that Mama Malaika had stopped taking her ARV's (Anti-retroviral medication which strenthens the immune system and lengthens life for AIDS patients) due to her lack of food. Sadly, because she lacked sufficient food for her and her daughter (mothers are all too selfless) to consume, she refused to continue the drugs, which required a proper, mixed diet.

Karibu yet another revelation of my ignorance! I never gave this obstacle much thought, but have been enlightened since on how common this predicament is among those infected. No food means no drugs. And life ends a lot sooner than it needs to.

So, now what? I'm committed to being there for Malaika and her mom, as much as I can until my time at Vijana ceases (and maybe beyond?). I can invite Malaika over to wash my clothes or clean my house to earn extra money to buy small household items. I can connect them with local (as in not a Moshi-based hospital like KCMC, which she can't afford to visit regularly) Home-Based Care (HBC), which includes not only counseling, free drugs (ARV's), references to optional support groups, but also nutritional supplements for cases just like this one - where food and money is scarce. I can teach Malaika and other kids her age about HIV/AIDS so that infection rates decrease, so that stigma is reduced and so that more open dialogue ensues about "the disease" among the next generation. I can believe in Malaika, encouraging her as her Life Skills teacher to continue striving for her goal to become a secretary. Achieving such will help her provide for her mom, her greatest desire.

Malaika's strong. And I'm touched by her resiliency. But I can't help but wonder how she'll cope when she has no one, not even her mother around. I will never stop asking myself what more I can do. In this field, it's difficult to feel like your job is ever done, or that you're doing it to the fullest.

I guess all we can do is our best, as my Mom always told me. Thanks Mom. And Happy Mother's Day. This one's for you.


Jamila gives a thumbs up. "I know we can...be what we want to be...if we work hard at it..we'll be where and what we want to be"
And speaking of motherhood...