Experiences in Kenya 1

HIV. AIDS. Two words that still make people shudder and send tiny chills across the spine. Nowadays, technology and advanced scientific research has allowed for patients infected with this disease to live longer lives. You can almost say that some people have received second chances. But this is rarely a case outside developed countries, and certainly hardly in the abandoned, perhaps forgotten parts of Africa. I remember when I first heard that our choir group would be traveling to Nyumbani, a HIV/AIDS research facility center that cares for destitute, deserted children infected with the terrible disease; of course I felt pity for the kids, but I was also weary and nervous, thinking AIDS to be an infectious disease like the common flu. As I jumped off the bus, children ranging from toddlers to 10 year olds swarmed me. I backtracked a little, afraid to give them hugs should I contract the disease that all those children had. But my wall of ignorance and veil of lofty exultation were torn down by their smiles. These kids were infected with one of the most deadly diseases known to mankind, and yet their smiles radiated a stream of light far more powerful and beautiful than of the sun itself. After singing to the members and children of the facility, we all went outside to play with the children on the playground. After I climbed through the jungle gym and almost flew the children off the seesaw, I approached one of the children and started a simple conversation with him. He was very small for his age, but his heart and smile was bigger than any that I’ve ever seen. The playground was too crowded and noisy, so we decided to walk elsewhere. As we walked along a cobblestone pathway, we entered through a large shade and realized that we were standing under a majestic loquat tree. I looked around the tree to see if there were any branches for me to knock some fruit off and after a long struggle, finally found a branch long and sturdy enough. Due to my lack of precision skills, it took a while to knock down a few fruits. The loquat melted in my mouth and I couldn’t help smiling as I saw the boy laughing and eating the fruit hungrily. We walked, talked, and certainly laughed more before it was time for me to leave. As I waved good-bye to him inside the bus, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the little kid. How many years would he have left? 15? Maybe 20? But I almost immediately realized I shouldn’t feel sorry for the children at all. In fact, I felt ashamed for feeling sorry for them. Who was I to think I was in a higher position to look down upon the children and think that they were worse off than me? Those children weren’t dying. They were living. And they enjoyed living. They don’t want or even need pity from people like us. All they need is someone to hold hands with, slide down the rusty aluminum slide, and to share a loquat. They live their lives to the fullest, never wallowing in self-pity or sorrow, but enjoying and cherishing every passing moment doing what they love to do.

            After all these years, I still remember the name of the boy whom I shared an afternoon eating loquats and walking over the clumsily placed stone road with: Lazarus. The same name belonging in the Bible to a man who had died but was resurrected back to life. He was sentenced to death when he was born. But he was given a second chance at life, and he has seized it with utmost strength.