Against the natural order....

For a grandmother to bury her child must be an unbearably painful experience. To also bury a 13 year old grandson is a nightmare I cannot begin to imagine. Parents are not meant to survive their children. It simply goes against the natural order of things. There are certainly those who view life through a more spiritual or religious lens and understand a loss of this nature as a part of god’s larger plan. For me, that explanation provides no satisfaction and no personal measure of comfort. What kind of god would intentionally bring such pain to a family, robbing them of their child and the child of his future?

These are questions I’ve been struggling with for the last few weeks, since learning about the death of Nkosinathi (not his real name), a 13 year old boy who was being sponsored through the Gift of Hope. I cannot claim to have known this child well. In fact, we only met for the first time just 2 days before his passing, when I had a lovely visit with him and his grandmother. I could instantly see the loving bond the two of them shared. Nkosi told me of his dreams for his future to become an artist—a future which he will now, tragically, never know. Perhaps it was the timing of this sudden turn of events which caused me to react with such profound sadness. Or maybe it was the thought of his granny, who loved this child so much and devoted herself to caring for him. How much loss could she possibly bear? Wasn’t the death of her daughter,(Nkosi’s mother) more than enough suffering for one lifetime? Or perhaps it was simply because he was just a child and children are not meant to die.

Whatever the reason, Nkosi’s death hit me in a very personal way, and when I learned his funeral was last Friday I knew I wanted to be there. It was important to honor his memory and pay my respects to his grandmother, and also to be there as a surrogate for his American sponsor, who was so genuinely pained by the news that she offered to help cover the cost of his funeral. And symbolically, I also thought of this as an opportunity to pay homage to the thousands of anonymous children who, like Nkosi, have tragically had their lives cut short by HIV/AIDS.

So I joined three of the counselors from Sinikithemba for the drive to Umlazi—a poor rural township where Nkosi lived with his granny, sister and other extended family members. I cannot say enough about the character and compassion of these women, who make it their life’s work to help support children and their families who are infected and affected by HIV. They treat the children with such extraordinary care and compassion, and are so vital to the overall success of the Sinikithemba pediatrics program. I personally don’t know where they find the internal fortitude for this job, as they regularly witness pain and illness, and sometimes the death of a young child from AIDS. Thankfully, in the last 10 years, with the tremendous expansion of anti-retroviral therapy, the loss of children is a far less common occurrence. Nevertheless, even ONE such death is one too many. Although we did not discuss this directly, in my heart I knew we were all making this trip for the same reason…… to let the granny and extended family know that our care and our support did not end with Nkosi’s passing.

On our way to Umlazi we stopped off at Makro, South Africa’s version of Sams or Costco, and filled a grocery cart with food provisions—large bags of rice, potatoes, maize, carrots, onions, sugar, long life milk, cans of beans etc. There was little we could do to ease the family’s pain, but perhaps we could be of some help by providing some food and nourishment, and easing their financial burden.

We made the 40 minute drive to the white church, which sat perched on the hilltop, surrounded by modest homes and tin shacks, which tell the story of poverty in this rural area of Kwa Zulu Natal. The church was a simple structure,--one open room with white washed concrete walls and a few colored stain glass windows, alongside other broken panes of clear glass. Inside were rows of plain wooden benches, followed by two steps which led up to a pulpit, adorned with a cross and several bouquets of flowers that had been added for the occasion. It was not a grand or impressive church, but was certainly a place of great importance and reverence in this community of Christians, who rely heavily on their spirituality and faith, particularly at a time of loss.

I stood with the other counselors from Sinikithemba, lined up outside of the church alongside a small group of people who had arrived before us. Some chatted in quiet tones—others stood by in silence, as well all waited for the family to arrive. More guests started to drift in and soon a white hearse pulled up the stone driveway, and through the front window I could see gogo’s frame. A feeling of sadness overwhelmed me when I saw her being helped out of the car. She appeared so much older and frailer than when I saw her just 10 days earlier, when she had stood tall and strong as Nkosi leaned on her arm for physical and emotional support. Now sapped of her own physical and emotional strength, she leaned on the arm of her daughter as she made her way to the front of the church, waiting for the small white casket to be wheeled in ahead of her. Close behind followed her extended family, clinging to one another, while shedding tears that spoke of the pain of recurring loss.

Soon the church was filled to capacity—neighbors, friends, family, teachers, church members and the 4 of us from Sinikithemba. More than likely I was the least familiar face in the room. Yet, as the only white person in a room full of Zulu people, my presence could hardly go unnoticed for long. Granny was seated perpendicular to me but just a few rows away and I was following her gaze, as she stared toward the floor, as if unable to look ahead at the casket. I found it difficult to bring my eyes there as well. It was the first time I had been to a child's funeral, the first time I had seen a casket of such tiny proportion, and the first time I would later stand at a graveside while a granny sprinkled dirt over the casket of her 13 year old grandson. All of it was against the natural order of things....although sadly far more common for the world in which this granny lived.

Soon she looked up and glanced around, searching the room for family and friends. The moment she spotted me, her expression changed; first a brief look of confusion, as she processed who this white woman was sitting just a few rows away from her. Then her eyes opened widely, showing both her recognition and her surprise to see me there..and then, the faintest of smiles. She nodded her head, signaling she knew me, and her eyes filled with tears. I returned her gaze, and gestured to her with a nod and my hands crossed by my heart, in an effort to convey to her my heartfelt sympathy. We did not speak the same language and we had not exchanged any words, but her face told me that she understood my message of support and sympathy. I barely knew this woman, but in that moment of non-verbal communication I knew my decision to come to the funeral was the right one, and that it had deeply touched her.

Seated next to granny was her daughter, (Nkosi's aunt) and the two began talking quietly amongst themselves, looking back in my direction at one point. Moments later her daughter got up and came to where I was sitting. She leaned over and in quiet tones of Zulu which I did not understand, she spoke to Sizile, , one of the Sinikithemba counselors, who was seated next to me. Sizile turned to me and caught me totally off guard “they would like to know if you would like to speak.” Sizile saw my look of confusion, unsure of exactly what they were requesting. “They would like to know if you would like to say a few words about having known Nkosi”, she repeated. I paused, feeling both surprised and somehow honored, and I did not feel that this was a request I could decline.

And so, following lengthy remarks from a neighbor, school principal, Sunday school teacher and spokesperson for the family, all of whom spoke in Zulu, I was called up to say a few words. A brief murmur spread through the church, as I stood up and walked to within a few feet of the grandmother, directing my gaze at her. I was little more than a stranger—a white woman from America, rather out of place in a church filled with a community of Zulu people. What could I possibly say that would be of any meaning or comfort to the grandmother and her family? I began somewhat tentatively, pausing after a few sentences for one of the clergy to translate into Zulu. I could tell however that many in the church understood my English, as there were audible “ahhs” and “hmmms” after many of the thoughts I expressed. I began with candor…saying that I was an American who had only met Nkosi and his granny once, just a week earlier, when they came to see me at McCord Hospital, where I come each year to volunteer. Although I certainly didn’t know him like most of those who were in attendance, I was able to see, from our one conversation, that he was a sweet and gentle boy…intelligent, and talented. But more than anything, I went on to emphasize, I could see that Nkosi shared a special and loving relationship with his grandmother, who took such good care of him. And Nkosi, in return, loved his family. I recalled the story that granny had shared with me about how he loved to serve his entire family a breakfast of fried eggs, fish fingers and Vienna sausages. His sister began to softly cry.

I continued, my own voice starting to break, telling everyone about the joy I had during that one meeting of delivering a gift from Nkosi’s American sponsor—a handsome wrist watch, that caused Nkosi to burst into a big smile and say, "I feel so happy.” It was perhaps the only smile and only happy moment in the last few days of his life, when he was so close to death, and I had been able to capture it in a few photos, which I had blown up and laminated. I told the gogo and her family that I wanted them to have those pictures, so that they could always remember Nkosi with a smile, in that moment of joy that we had all shared together. I expressed my deepest sympathies, wished the granny strength and comfort from her loving memories of Nkosi, and then handed her an envelope of photos before giving her a hug and kissing her cheek, now wet with tears. She hugged me back, said thank you, and then dropped her head and cried and cried. One row behind her sat Nkosi’s sister, who was now sobbing uncontrollably.

I returned to my seat and gazed towards the family and then the small white casket, feeling a pang of sadness and defeat that the hope we tried to bring to this family with our sponsorship support was simply not enough, and another child had been lost to the HIV/AIDS epidemic. But I also felt some small amount of comfort that Nkosi’s grandmother understood I was there for more than the monetary support or the coverage of Nkosi's medical costs. I was there to let her know that people far away, from a different culture and language,and with little knowledge of or experience with HIV, had CARED...had wanted to help and wanted to make a difference. Sometimes, when life goes against the natural order of things, that is simply the best we can do.