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Subject: AFRICA DIARY 5: THE RICE TENTS
Time: 11:05:00 AM EST
Author: ajuddinafrica
We drove dark streets to an area that seemed from the car as all the others, dusty clay roads, tiny, ramshackle, colorful shacks, maybe a little grimier, but essentially the same. That perception was shattered, however, when I realized that the plastic on the sidewalk was itself the brothel I was visiting. They are called rice tents and the poorest women in one of the world’s poorest countries lie down in them directly on the pavement for as little at 15 cents. They are so poor that no individual woman can alone pay the dollar it costs to buy the sheets of plastic, so 2 or 3 or more go in together, and that type of clustering was apparent as they indeed swirled around me in pairs and threes. They were drawn to me but would hang off my translator’s neck, which I needed here as none of these community sex workers (CSW) speak French, only Malgache. They sniffed her out as a safe person and worked up their courage to touch me, which happened soon enough. (A quick note about Noosy, our translator and compassion partner: what a sweet sister to have in these situations. She is someone with incredible sensitivity in incredibly raw, delicate circumstances, who can facilitate remarkably vulnerable conversations. She and I held hands as much as we held hands with CSWs. )
Everyone was smelly. Often the people on my trips with whom I come into contact—and I like close contact—are, but this group was a different kind of smelly, a homeless smelly. The stinkest was Nini, and she is also the most destroyed person I have met so far in my capacity as the YouthAIDS Global Ambassador. Her problems are an acute distillation of poverty, lack of education, gender inequality, preventable disease, unplanned pregnancy, and no way out. Her mental health is precarious, and why wouldn’t it be? She’s about to have her 5th child any day now, and she’s already buried two of them. Even the abducted women of Cambodia and Thailand had something in their reserves that life in this developing country has drained out of Nini’s spirit. We gave her food, but Papa Jack saw an older woman take it from her and we fretted for days over whether or not she ever got it back. She never looked up, always holding her eyes in a dead, downward gaze. I would caress her, and something like the ghost of a smile, the memory of what a smile might have been in another life, would pass over part of her face, but never all of it, never completely.
The other women were standard issue commercial sex workers. Does that sound crass? When I asked one particularly dark and beautiful woman how it all came about, she waved her hand and said dismissively, “Same old story.” And it’s true, the details (number of kids, how long they’ve been on the streets, number of client’s per night) might vary, but the broad strokes are numbingly repetitive in Madagascar, in Kenya, in South Africa, in Thailand, in Cambodia….One woman, when I asked her how it happened, began to cry, and buried herself in Noosy’s thin shoulder, too traumatized to talk about her past, her family.
The HIV story amongst these women has elements of uncertainty. They have received reproductive health and HIV education via our peer education programs, but having sex with strangers on the sidewalk obviously reflects that circumstances are so desperate that they cannot say no to that 15 cents, condom or no condom. However, when I sat inside one of the tents, easily the darkest moment of my life, the ground was littered with torn foil packets and damp condoms, which in its own way is good news. The bad news is that I could not summon God into that hell hole. I literally felt a rebuff.
There was a transcendent moment with this group, however, and that, coupled with the fact I spent time with them over a number of days, has seared them into my soul. They had their babies with them, even though they were working, and one especially young CSW let me hold her son Patrick. Oh boy. He was, naturally, completely precious, and looked at me wondrously. I might have been the first white person he ever saw! He did that thing babies do when they rest on your chest, then lift their heads a bit to consider the world, but decide it’s not worth it, why bother with all that, when you can simply sigh and burrow in that safe place of shelter within the bosom. I nearly died on the spot. I began to sing to him a French song, incongruously for January as it was a Christmas carol, but the words just came to me: “ Il est ne le divin enfant,” he is born, the divine baby, and is that not what all babies are? A spark of the divine is in us all, uncorrupted and pure, and the women on the street joined me as I sang. When we finished, the air was different, charged, sacred. We were outside of ourselves, outside of these lives, inside something wonderful and good, the love and promise a baby makes you feel.
We stood quietly for a long moment, then Dr. Rene, one of our world’s many unsung heroes, began a lullaby. This great man has ministered to the needs of CSWs on the streetsfor 10 years now, continuously declining other jobs, options, administrative work, raises, whatever, so he can stay with the least, the lost, the last. He deserves to be enshrined. Given the geometric movement of the HIV virus, it is impossible to estimate the number of lives he has saved by teaching high risk groups and their clients about condoms. Even more immeasurable is the humanity, so delicate in these circumstances, he has kept alive with lullabies such as the one he sang for Patrick and me that night.
Back at the hotel, we were all so torn up. I haven’t seen much of our small YouthAIDS team as Moyra and I are working alone while VH-1 films us, and so we took a moment, despite our exhaustion, to sit in the lobby and share the space. To cheer me Kate told me she had a surprise, a fairly standard trick of hers, but this one was extra special: in Capetown I am going to meet Archbishop Desmond Tutu. The floodgates opened, and I bawled, so Kate welled up and began to cry, which made Jenny and Suann cry, even though they didn’t know precisely why we were crying, and we all just sat there unapologetically laughing and crying in the well lit lobby, in full view of all whom looked our way.
As a university student I formed my politics and my activism listening to Archbishop Tutu’s speeches on LP records that banned South Africans brought to America when they fled the repressive, racist Nationalist government. The idea that I will meet this hero of 19 years standing to whom I can directly attribute the work I am now doing in Africa absolutely floors me. That he is a love filled, child-like man of abiding faith makes me feel like I won’t be able to walk in the room where he will be waiting for me,that I’ll end up lyingonthe floor in front of him.
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Dear Ashley -
It is people like you we need to give thanks for everyday. Being a 17-year-old soon off to college, I have never been aware of how AIDS has affected so many regions of the world so strongly. Reading about your journey has really shown me how much you touch lives and how you love to give to others. I think that is the strongest and most important quality anyone could ever posess. Thank you for the inspiring example you are setting, and good luck on the rest of your trip.
God Bless - Joanna -
Ms. Judd -
I have read all of your entries, and many of the comments people post, and though I know you can't respond to all of them, I hope you find time some day to read them. Though it is redundant to say considering the vast majority of the other comments say the same thing, I cannot resist the urge to tell you that I am in awe of what you do. You are an inspiration to people like me and make people who act seem so much more respectable. The public rarely sees this side of actors, and it is wonderful that you are putting so much out there.
Also, as a teacher of Autistic, behaviorally challenged students, I know how difficult it can be to do work that you believe in and other people question why you bother. I am sure there have been naysayers along the way (there always are), but just forget about them and think about how many lives you are changing along the way.
Your comments are extremely well written, well thought out, and informative. Thank you for taking the time to give us a glimpse of what you are experiencing.
Sincerely,
Shellie -
When I traveled there before the AIDS scourge Africa had most of the problems you are seeing now. We in the West must 'get it' that we must do our part for those we can help in any way. What has stayed with me is the sweetness of people and the essence of the vast land. Both get in your blood and call you back again and again.
Many of the circumstances of grinding poverty you describe remind of the Calcutta and Bombay slums. In fact so many areas of India people (barely) exist below poverty. We are so spoiled and blessed in the West.
Keep traveling, (try to see Victoria Falls), working and learning, and writing.--BJ -
What a beautiful description of details. I love your written work and context is all worth reading. It fills me with inspiration, again and again I feel blessed to be where I am at this moment. Love to you and God bless you, Sherie
2/7/05 6:30 PM
miracolous people like you shall to visit south america. right here, we're struggling against conservative preconcepts encouraged by the mighty catholic church. there are people fighting for the abort's legalization, for the free condom's use among young people -your focus group- and an open minded perspective about the crowd's sexual behavior.
i beg you to give your flesh and soul for millions of aids-hiv and cancer young victimes, at countries like ecuador, colombia, argentina or peru ... my homeland.
take a chance with us, dear madae judd.
sincerely yours, your humble servant,
fernando flores-zuñiga
bizman-lima, peru