Search this site

Febuary


Month

September

October
November
December
January
February
March

Documentation
Work Plan

This Month

 

back to january...

Friday January 23, 2004
Why do you keep going?
Why do you keep going? What motivates you? Is it mere survival? Or is it more? And why?

These are the questions that are staring me in the face.

Life here in Togo is real and raw.

Just like anywhere, people here wear “masks” – ways to show the world that everything is okay, even when it might not be. However, they seem to more easily let their masks down. When you greet someone with “Ca va?”, they may just hit you with the truth of “Non, ça ne va pas”. Because here in Togo not everything is fine.

This past Sunday, January 18, 2004, my friend Jean died.

I had been to visit him Saturday morning. I was in a rush to leave for Lomé, having planned to take the bus at 7am. However, I felt I needed to see how he and his family were doing, so I went for a quick visit. As time has a tendency to slip by in Africa, I ended up spending almost 2 hours with him. Thank God.

We caught up on his medical status, and that of his pregnant wife Afi. His daughter Amène, who has been participating in my peer-educator group, told me that they haven’t had enough money to do all of the medical tests they need: they’ve been trying to put aside money for her school fees (which are close to an unreasonable 100 dollars for the year). She is in “Première Science”, a very tough year, yet only one year from achieving the “bacc” (i.e. finishing secondary school). When I heard this I recognized what a feat it was for her to have made it this far. Not many village girls last very long in school as poverty pushes their families to withdraw their daughters from school in order to save money. Many girls end up taking care of their siblings, working in the fields, or selling in the market. So, it did not take much reflecting for me to pass her 20 dollars so she could receive her report card at school this week along with her peers. She was overjoyed and there was no question in my mind that this girl deserved all the chances in the world.

Jean spoke to me about his worries: What will happen to his children after he dies? Is his wife sero-positive? Will he ever get healthy again so that he can go back to his fields and provide for his family? He told me of how his family had never been willing to help him with medical expenses. They said that since he had AIDS, he was going to die anyway, so why waste the money on treatment. Over the Christmas holidays, Jean’s nephew came down from their mountain village to visit. On his return to the village, the nephew’s father (Jean’s brother) called Jean, telling him he should just move back home to the village right now. According to what the nephew saw, Jean was “obviously” going to die, so why bother staying in Kpalimé for medical care?

This brought about a spark of fire in Jean, a willingness to dare to dream, to dare to hope in the face of an unknown outcome. I took this opportunity to help guide his thoughts towards the positive. I led him in a guided visualization wherein after relaxing his tired body he imagined his white blood cells as angels in disguise that circulated throughout, bringing healing and comfort. (I adapted this from Marianne Williamson’s suggestion in her book “A Return to Love”.) When he opened his eyes, I saw a calm and joy that I had not yet seen in Jean. I left him to rest.

He died the next day. His family said they did not even know he was dying.


Jean's funeral ceremony

I am so thankful that I took that time to spend with him. I am honoured to have shared that moment of peace and to have been beside him in his final hours.

My sweet dear brother, may you be at peace now. May you finally let go of the pain and the struggle and trust that those you have left behind are always a part of the greater Whole, to which you have returned. Everything that has a beginning must end in this world of form. You will always be with me my friend. You have taught me much, and will remain my teacher for the rest of my life. Thank you for touching me so deeply. Thank you for demonstrating courage in the face of human struggle. Thank you for letting me be a part of your family, your care, your life. Sleep now, and may you awake, refreshed, in the arms of Love.

I think I’m seeing some answers to my questions. Why? Because I just could not imagine doing anything else. I choose these experiences, I choose to challenge myself to stay open, to stay beside, to not run away when I don’t like what I see, to not stick my head in the sand when I want to make the craziness of the world disappear. And I choose them knowing that some days my heart is going to feel like it is being ripped open, and some days I will raise my fist to the world wanting to chase away the injustice. As Jean’s daughter Amène said to me this morning: “It’s not fair!” Some days I will cry, and some days I just won’t understand anything about how life works or what the fuck we are doing to our brothers, our sisters, our SELVES.

And then I will have the opportunity to dry the tears of a woman who just found out she has HIV, and sit and just listen to her story, her hopes and fears. I will see her beauty and strength. I will feel honoured at the intimate connection that occurs with uncensored disclosure and the dropping of masks. I will dare to hope that the fire of anger and frustration at the injustice before her will rise into a flame of courage and fury, and that this energy will be enough to let her live fully and perhaps help to spread the word that things need to change in this crazy world of ours.

back to top

 

...On to march