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That day, in the middle of that banana
field, my life changed as my thinking underwent
a revolution. You see, I knew that there
are more orphans in Uganda than in any other
country of the world today: 2.1 to 2.3 million
according to most observers.
But the revolution in my thinking took
place only once I was able to individualize
the daunting and disturbing statistics.
As I held Simon in my arms, and as I looked
into his eyes, I came face to face with
the reality that our fight with HIV/AIDS
is not about numbers and dollars, but about
real people—with names and faces.
Further investigation, and now nineteen
months of on-the-job experience in Uganda,
have shown me that when more than ten percent
of a population is orphaned, there is a
need which transcends culture, society,
government, church, and home. When the world
loses massive numbers of people, there are
survivors left to neglect and abandonment.
And disease.
Yes, in Uganda, the HIV infection rate
has drastically reduced. You realize, of
course, that this means that many of those
who were infected have died. And that not
as many new infections have occurred.
I have just told you that more than two
million children are orphaned in Uganda.
Just one country. A country we rightly tout
as currently edging towards victory in our
desperate war. Many of these children are
already HIV positive. Many of them, thankfully,
are not. I have a desperate worry; a plaguing
concern about what happens as this group
of children ages. Some of these little hearts
and personalities are often left alone.
Regularly ignored. Rarely cared for. What
happens as their yearnings for intimacy
and acceptance develop into a sexual activity
and adulthood not reared with the benefits
of kisses-on-the-forehead nor an elder’s
wisdom?
My greater worry, though, is for the children
who are already infected with HIV, an HIV
that has rapidly destroyed their immune
systems, and has given them AIDS. They are
suffering—and are most often suffering
unnecessarily. There is much that can be
done for them. Like at Aidchild, the hospice
and palliative care center I founded and
currently direct in Masaka. When nutrition,
proper hygiene and loving care replace abuse,
neglect and desperately overtaxed extended
families, this unnecessary suffering is
transformed into a preciously simple condition
of comfort, strength and hope. Surely this
is a basic human right worthy of provision
for children who have no one.
I walk around my home in Uganda everyday
saying three words: “It’s so
easy. The every-day-activities required
to help these children are more ordinary
than heroic.
Please allow me to close with the story
of one of my children, Ivan. He was nine
years old when he came to live with me.
Little is known about his past. Before Ivan
was referred to Aidchild, he was surviving
in the ramshackled police barracks of my
town. More than one policeman has told me
that Ivan would awake early every morning
to pray. In a loud voice he would say, “Oh
God, please send someone to help me. I am
hurting. I’m sad, and I’m alone.”
Once with us, Ivan became perfect joy.
He became stronger. His blind eyes were
treated. His malaria, TB, shingles, aches
and pains were carefully tended. He was
quicker to rejoice than to weep.
Months had gone by when he started to sleep
a lot. In his own bed. A clean, comfortable
space, free of mosquitoes and daunting heat.
One day, he awoke from his slumber and looked
at my staff members. He said, “I have
seen that you love me so much.” And
then, he did something I find quite extraordinary
and special. He said, “Thank you.”
He returned his head to his pillow, and
listened to the soft music we play as a
part of our hospice care. Again he spoke,
“That music is so nice,” he
said. And then went back to sleep.
My little Ivan died early the next morning.
But most of my children are still living
with me—strong, happy and hopeful.
With AIDS. Even months later.
And some have died. Others will also die.
But perhaps Ivan’s is the greatest
hope. May we all one day be able to say,
“I have seen that I am loved. I am
grateful. I’m comfortable. And I’m
going to go to sleep now.”
Robert Louis Stevenson once wrote, “So
long as we are loved by others, we are indispensable,
and no (one) is useless (when they) have
a friend.”
From the frontlines, I report to you that
this must become the reality for millions
of children around the world. And it can
be done. I know firsthand. Extended family
networks are exhausted, even destroyed.
Foster homes are often perfect and wonderful—but
will always be too few. If we are to offer
this basic right to as many children as
we possibly can, we simply cannot afford
to rule out any one type of care for this
terrific number of dear hearts, sweet faces,
and precious individuals.
Working together, we must make a difference.
We can make a difference.
And, moreover, I absolutely maintain: it
really is so easy.
Thank you.
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