15.12.05 - 13:51

Another day at my new workplace, Espoir et Vie. I came in to find Fati (ok, we'll just agree that from now all names of HIV+ people have been changed to protect privacy.) You could tell just by looking at her that she was completely worn out. Her face was lined and ashy, her spine bent like a dejected question mark. with her was her five-month-old son, who had been having diarrhea for several days. He, at least, seemed in good spirits and, when not whining siren noises as a result of the diarrhea, smiled quite a bit.

Fati's husband divorced her while she was pregnant, because she was HIV positive. Only one doctor would deliver Fati's baby; the rest of the doctors and nurses at the hospital flatly refused, for fear of contracting the disease. Fati and her newborn then lived with Fati's mother and sisters. Repeatedly, her own family told Fati that her child should be killed. "Your child will infect ours. We'll kill him." Whenever Fati entered a room, they would exit it. After a few months, they took the final step and kicked Fati out of the house. Fati was able to stay at another sister's house for only one night before that sister too evicted her.

She came to Espoir et Vie last Monday with nothing but a bottle for her child and a couple changes of clothes. she had no place to go.

Espoir et Vie has no money to help cases like Fati's; they are too far beyond our scope. Still, the director of Espoir et Vie gave Fati around 100USD from our administrative overhead. ("We'll just use less water and make fewer telephone calls.") Aicha agreed to find Fati a room near hers, and to cook and share all her meals with Fati.

With that settled, Aicha and Fati agreed to meet after work hours. Fati looked a little lost. She had nowhere to go to wait.

Needless to say (and yet I'll say it), I fought tears through Fati's story. She was close to crying as well, which is so significant in a culture in which people just don't cry or show negative emotion.

Later, I went to lunch with Aicha. "You are so strong," I told her. "You live with this horrible disease in a society that makes it difficult for you. You deal with such sadness everyday at work! And yet you are always positive; you have smiles for everyone."

She had a smile for me, too. "If I wasn't like that, if I wasn't positive, I would die."

Yesterday, Fati came back into the office. Though she was still worried, her skin was brighter and she hazarded a few smiles.

When I went to get my cell phone to make a call, she asked if she could make a quick call. When the person on the other end picked up, she spoke for a few moments in Pulaar, then suddenly doubled over, clutching her child and sobbing so hard she couldn't breathe. I took the phone from her and listened. The call had not been disconnected, but there was silence on the other end. I hung up.

"She just spoke to her mother," another Pulaar lady in the bureau said. Fati just cried and cried.

Then, simultaneously, Aicha admonished Fati for crying ("You are lucky! you have people who will help you! You have no right to be upset! If you cry like this, you will die from the illness!") and I stroked Fati's arm and tried to comfort her ("God did not make humans perfect. We are not always so strong. It's OK. Just cry as long as you need to. It's OK.)

Fati finally calmed down, but wouldn't tell me what happened, except to respond that her mother "said nothing." A few minutes later, she asked me if I would call the same number. "Will you just say 'Fati te salue tres bien'? That's all. Just tellher you're a friend of Fati's and that she greets you." I did so. The woman on the other end greeted me in Pulaar and thanked me after I transmitted the message. When she began speaking more Pulaar (which I don't understand), I gave the phone to Fati. They spoke for two minutes, ten hung up. Fati seemed better composed.

Fati left and I sat down to put patient records in an Excel spreadsheet. The director was ecstatic that I was able to teach them how to use Excel, instead of just writing down information. But I just kept thinking, It's not enough. It's just not enough. Nothing I do will ever be enough.

(PS Fati expressed an interest in starting a pen pal program between HIV+ Mauritanians and HIV+ Americans. If anyone is interested or knows another HIV+ person who would be interested in corresponding over e mail, please drop me a line. I'll translate.)

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