A Belated Birthday in the Bush!

I'm sure there are some of you who can understand my general attitude about birthdays...at this stage in my life, I would be just as happy to simply stop counting them! Then again, some are truly worth noting and celebrating, and I would have to say that my birthday this year was such an occasion. I was at McCord Hospital last Tuesday, February 28th, and my day started out with a terrific surprise party at 8am, complete with a delicious chocolate cake (it's NEVER too early for chocolate in my book!), and 30 of the cutest, sweetest cards that were hand drawn by the children from Sinikithemba. It was a really special treat for me, and just part one of a birthday celebration that continued this past week in the African bush.

Early Sunday morning Gary and I began our own belated birthday celebration, as we made a 3 hour drive to a private game reserve in the Watersberg Mountains, called Shambala--a Tibetan word which means “paradise on earth”. I would have to say that is a pretty accurate description of this beautiful yet simple, natural styled lodge, which is fabricated from large tree trunks, which form the supporting "walls" for an enormous free formed thatched roof. Shambala is set on a 12,000 hectre farm which has been converted to a private game reserve, where Nelson Mandela was gifted a private home by the land owner, who is a close friend of the South African iconic hero.

As you make your way from the main gate, where you are greeted by your lodge host and ranger and a tall glass of sparkling cold bubbly, you proceed on a 30 minute drive in your open land rover to the main camp, where we would spend three nights. The scenery is truly beautiful, as you follow the richly clay colored sand roads which wind their way through an amazing and expansive landscape. At the start you pass wide open plains, where zebra, wildabeast and impala gently graze alongside one another. Soon the landscape becomes richer, covered with an endless number of lush, green wild syringa trees and tall golden grasses, still thick from the summer rains. The beautiful and graceful shape of these classic African trees looks stunning against the backdrop of the Watersberg mountain range and the crystal clear blue sky above. You are only a few hours from the hustle, bustle and traffic congestion of Joburg, and in that time and space you have been transported to a magical place which I have grown to love; the African bush!

Soon you arrive at the main lodge, passing by an open air fire pit, known as the boma, where we would warm ourselves at night, while we gazed into the endless maze of stars which fills the African sky. Just past the boma is an elevated common space--a large open sitting area covered by a thatched roof, filled with a comfy couch and 2 long dining room tables; a place for all of the lodge guests to break bread, share a hearty meal, and stories of their day in the bush. On the other side of the fireplace wall is a bar and open deck, with a small plunge pool and a few lounge chairs, all of which overlook the river which passes by in front of you. Just across the rivers edge is beautiful plant life of different textures, all growing out of a wall of natural rock outcroppings, which we are told periodically feature a local crocodile or hippo who has come to drink from its waters.

Surrounding the main area are a collection of 8 small Zulu style huts, which allows for a maximum of 16 guests at any one time, guaranteeing an intimate experience and excellent service. So imagine our surprise when we arrived at Shambala and learned that we would be enjoying three days at our own private “paradise on earth”! Yes…we were the ONLY guests at the lodge, and we were doted on by a staff of about 12 of the loveliest people, who quickly grew to feel like our friends. With warm smiles and attentive service, they went above and beyond to make sure every moment of our stay was special and as perfect as could be.

There was our gorgeous and very talented chef Neal, who made us the most exquisite meals to suit our every food fantasy, including a final 6 course dinner, complete with a hand decorated dark chocolate birthday cake! There was our lovely female ranger, Antoinette, who wanted desperately to please us and find that elusive singular cheetah that was on the reserve, and the pride of 5 lions who had been in hiding from view for the past several weeks. There was the wildlife manager, Louie, who went out before the sun came up each morning, searching deep in the bush, often on foot, in an effort to locate some of the harder to find game. And Antoinette's husband Clayton, who made a special run in his vehicle on our last morning, and tracked down the cheetah tucked deep in the bush under a tree. Thanks to their keen knowledge of their surroundings and animal behavior, coupled with the determination and courage of Antoinette to go off road, deep into the tall grasses where the vehicle could easily get stuck, we hit the jackpot on our last morning game drive...spotting both the pride of 5 lion, as well as the cheetah!

Once again we had good bush karma, making for a fantastic experience, mixed with some major adrenaline rushes! Perhaps the most thrilling moment (aka... think sheer fear!) was when we had pulled off road, turning and twisting through the tall grasses, until we found the pride of lions. About 20 feet away to the right of our vehicle were 2 male and 2 female lions, lying in the grass. As I quickly clicked my camera, trying to focus on the lion's mane through the blur of golden grass which camouflaged it, Gary glanced to our left and saw the 5th member of the pride, lying less than 10 feet from our vehicle. We were surrounded....off road....and unable to escape quickly should the "need" arise! As I sat and processed what was happening, it suddenly occurred to me that birthdays were wonderful things (no matter what your age!), and I hoped and prayed that this would not be the last one I celebrated! I'm not sure exactly when the momentt was that my heart started pounding... Was it when Charles, the tracker who went on our game drives, cocked the rifle he was carrying and aimed it straight at one of the lions, waiting to see if he would approach? Or was it the expression of quiet fear in Antoinette's face when she put the vehicle into first gear and struggled to make it move forward?! I'm not sure and at this point I am just glad that I can look back and joke about it! After a few tense moments, the lions thankfully got bored and laid down for a morning nap, giving us ample time to make our quick escape, without getting stuck! PHEW.....

Yes, we survived the weekend and enjoyed a little slice of paradise on earth at Shambala. Admittedly it's a bit light on game and a far cry from the game viewing experience of Kruger or Sabi Sands, but we still managed to see the big 5 in 3 days, not to mention other often overlooked but equally impressive and beautiful animals, like the striking zebra and the graceful impala. We enjoyed a spectacular African sunset from a sundowner boat ride on the damn, serenaded by hippos in the waters around us, and even had the thrill of an elephant back safari through the bush! And for those of you young at heart who still feel that a proper birthday celebration is not complete without a cast of Disney characters, we had a few of those as well!! The male bull leading the pack of elephants was named "Mickey", and the female we rode on behind him was named "Mouse" (you just can't make this stuff up!) And following close behind was Mouse's baby, who who would periodically slide underneath Mouse, stopping us on our trek, while she suckled at her mother and quenched her thirst. It was just adorable, and the whole experience one of the highlights of our stay.

Yes, another year has passed, and with it another fantastic African adventure to mark in our book of memories along our 2012 Journey of Hope. Now I can only hope that the next year will bring me the same sense of joy and adventure as this last one has, and that my birthday celebration will be as special as the one I've tried to share with all of you!

Returning to Durban: Tragedy and Hope

I stepped onto the tarmac after the short 55 minute flight and was instantly met by the heat and humidity, so characteristic of the summer months. I had just landed in Durban, where the climate is far more tropical, the pace of life far slower, and the feel far more “African” than that of Joburg. It was wonderful to be back in the city I think of as my first South African home; to be met at the airport by my South African family, Jenny, and to hear “Sawubona,” the Zulu word for hello, as I approached the security guard standing by the main entrance to the hospital. His face registered a smile of recognition, signaling that he remembered me from years past, just as I remembered him. Yes, it felt good to be back at McCord.

The familiarity of the people at McCord makes it easy to return and quickly slot into a comfortable rhythm at the hospital. Before the end of the first day, I was immersed in meetings with various staff members. We discussed the tremendous progress taking place at the hospital, the challenges ahead, and our shared ideas about new programs and opportunities to expand the Gift of Hope. It was an energizing and positive day, full of optimism for the future.

But as I learned long ago, joy and optimism are often temporary and transient emotions at McCord; before long you will invariably encounter a human story of pain and loss endured by one of the patients. Thankfully, with improvements in antiretroviral therapy, the heartbreak of losing a child to AIDS is now a rare exception—an enormously positive change from some 10 years ago, when burying a child was far too common an occurrence. Today, most of the children at Sinikithemba and in the Gift of Hope program are doing exceptionally well on treatment. But you only need to sit and talk with one of the patients or their caregivers to appreciate that health problems are only one component of the myriad of challenges facing South African families. You hear their stories and then are left feeling overwhelmed and sometimes helpless, holding a piece of their pain as if it somehow belonged partially to you.

I found myself soon on the downward side of that all too common emotional roller coaster ride on the second morning of my visit. I was meeting with Lungile, the social worker who runs the pediatric counseling program at Sinikithemba, to review the list of children being sponsored. We were ensuring that we had all of the correct information on these children; their age, sex, date of enrollment in the program. It began as a routine conversation about administrative matters, void of any human stories of consequence to stir ones emotions. But the conversation was certain to take a turn, as there is nothing about the lives of these children and their families which is routine or void of circumstances which can easily reduce you to tears. And no one knows this better than Lungile, who is intimately involved with Sinikithemba patients and their caregivers, and the daily struggles they encounter.

As we made our made our way through the list of names, Lungile suddenly paused and let out an audible sigh, a look of sadness spreading across her beautiful face. In a slow, quiet voice, she began to relay a story about a family I have known since the inception of the program. Like many families in this region of the world, this household is comprised of six AIDS orphans, where the eldest, a girl named Zinkhle*, is now 22 years old and is the head of the household. Barely more than a child herself, Zinkhle was forced to quit school and assume the role of a caregiver after losing both her parents to AIDS in 2006, when she was just 16 years old. With a very modest government grant as her only source of income, she dutifully shops, cooks, cleans and cares for her five siblings, who now range from 9 to 22 years of age. She has no one to help her financially, physically or emotionally—no parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles or cousins. She is alone and struggling, trying to cope with a 19-year-old brother who is doing drugs and stealing from her. She spends time after school with her HIV positive sister, helping her overcome learning issues, all the while ensuring she takes her daily regimen of ARVs and remains healthy.

(* Zinkhle is not her real name, and is being used to protect her identity)

Zinkhle’s life is not easy, but she loves her siblings and works tirelessly to care for them in whatever way she can, all the while dreaming of simply being able to return to school to study social work and have a future of her own. When I spoke to her last July, I asked her how she was managing and if it was getting any easier. She shrugged her shoulders and in a hushed tone of acceptance, replied, “I am trying. I am getting used to it. It is still hard, but there is nothing I can do.”

As Lungile begins to tell me what has happened, I am initially confused. Her expression and voice reveal pain, but her words tell a different story; Zinkhle, she tells me, was recently granted a loan to return to school and had begun her studies in social work. I am thrilled at this news, knowing that she is now in a position to pursue her education and dreams for the future. But then the story abruptly reverses course. Lungile describes a recent string of tragic events that has threatened to shatter this young woman’s dreams, and her entire world: the suicide of her 15-year-old brother, Sanele.** (** Sanele is not his real name, and is being used to protect his identity)

Back in January, while Sanele was working as a clerk in a store, two thugs from his neighborhood attempted to rob the store. He recognized them and bravely tried to put an end to the crime, grabbing the knife one of them carried and stabbing him, although not fatally. The two were arrested and imprisoned, but then soon released (for reasons unclear to me). News somehow got back to Sanele that they were reportedly coming after him to take revenge for the stabbing. So fearful of what they would do to him and his family, Sanele took his own life before they could attempt to do the same. It was Zinkhle who came home to discover her brother had hung himself.

I feel almost nauseous as I listen to this horrible story unfold and wonder how Zinkhle could possibly find the strength to bounce back from this tragedy. I pause long enough to appreciate that she is the same age as my own daughter Jamie. I wince, imagining if Jamie had to deal with anything approaching this magnitude, on top of the normal challenges Zinkhle confronts each and every day. I am reminded of the obvious—we lead such fortunate lives and largely take them for granted.

But before I can fully absorb this all, Lungile continues. A few weeks after her brother’s suicide, Zinkhle was returning home in a taxi shared by many other people. Next to her sat an elderly woman, carrying several packages in her arms. When the taxi stopped for the woman to get out, Zinkhle kindly offered to carry her packages and helped the elderly woman climb down from the van. The woman sitting behind Zinkhle offered to hold her purse while Zinkhle got out of the van, and Zinkhle trustingly gave it to her. But Zinkhle’s kindness was not to be returned. By the time she got back into the taxi, the woman was gone with Zinkhle’s purse.

Inside of it was 1800 rand (about $235)—the latest payment from the government to help her support her family, which was all the money she owned in the world. Zinkhle had carried it with her to ensure that her 19-year-old brother would not steal it. Now left with no money to purchase food or renew her electric card, the lights in the house soon went dark and the lunch bags she normally packed for her young siblings were soon empty. Desperate and alone, her siblings crying that they were hungry, she had the courage to reach out to Lungile for help, forever a source of strength for the children and caregivers who come to Sinikithemba. This is one of the many characteristics of the Sinikithemba program which make it so special and unique, and so beloved by the patients. The caregivers truly care about their patients and the families, and do whatever they can to help.

Lungile arranged for Zinkhle to come in and meet with the two of us, to see how we might be able to assist her through this extraordinarily difficult time. As I approached Lungile’s office I saw Zinkhle sitting quietly, her shoulders sagging, her face worn and void of expression. I greeted her with a forced smile and, as she stood up, I embraced her, offered her comfort, solace and reassurance that things would get better. She sat down and began to tell me small bits and pieces of the story, but soon she lowered her face into her hands and started softly sobbing. The details were simply too painful for her to recount.

I am not a social worker, a psychologist, or a grief counselor—not armed with the training, language and techniques to counsel someone through such a serious life tragedy. But wanting desperately to help in whatever way I could, I relied on my instincts as a mother and a human being, and did the best I could to give Zinkhle some glimmer of hope that the light would once again begin to shine for her.

We started by focusing on the immediate things we could do to ease Zinkhle’s burden, emotionally and financially. Lungile and I were most concerned with Zinkhle’s emotional health, as she was clearly despondent and depressed. She had been seen a week or two earlier by the staff psychologist at McCord, who had prescribed her anti-depressants. But following a visit to the government clinic, where the medication would be free, she was told to return in month to be seen by the doctor and fill the prescription. Concerned about her waiting this long to begin treatment, we phoned one of the doctors at McCord and got a prescription she could fill at the local pharmacy. It would cost Zinhkle about $7 to fill—a tiny price to pay, yet more than she could afford. It was hard for me to imagine being in this position, when I routinely spend this on my morning coffee and muffin—physical nourishment, yet so much less vital than the nourishment this young woman needed for her mind and her spirit.

We gave her money to cover the cost of her medication, as well as to charge her electric card and have her power restored. The next government grant was not expected for another two weeks, and so funds were arranged for her to buy groceries for her family. These immediate needs for sheer survival—food, water, power— are easy to resolve for anyone of us with income at our disposal. The total provided to her was less than $150; modest by our standards, yet of immeasurable value to this woman and her family, who literally have nothing. Once again, I was reminded of the modest effort involved in helping another person, especially those who are patients at McCord, and the power that each of has to make a meaningful difference in the life of another person. You don’t have to be wealthy or make a large donation; you simply have to stop and care.

The look of relief in Zinkhle’s eyes told me that we had helped. We certainly couldn’t erase the pain of her brother’s death, but we could help relieve her immediate financial burden, and remind her that she is not alone in this world; that there are people she can turn to who genuinely care and want to help her. We encouraged her to focus her energies on the positive things she was doing—raising her sisters and keeping them healthy and returning to school. We challenged her to find one reason each day to smile, even if just briefly, and assured her that with time it would get easier.

When Zinkhle said goodbye she had a smile on her face and a look of hope in her eyes; hope that life, as difficult and unfair as it had been to her, would eventually improve. It wouldn’t be easy or fast, but she knew that we wouldn’t abandon her and that if she started with baby steps, we would be there to help her keep moving along that path.

Discovering Jozi: The Journey Begins!

“Continuity gives us roots; change gives us branches, letting us stretch and grow and reach new heights.” ~Pauline R. Kezer

Discovering Jozi: The Journey Begins!

Much has been written about how moving can be one of life’s most stressful transitions. Although my husband Gary has spent a 30+ year career at IBM—which many have joked stands for “I’ve Been Moved”—we in fact have bucked the odds and have been moved only once in his tenure. So it seemed only appropriate that when Gary was finally asked to move for his job, that we did it in a big and rather dramatic way—all the way from the quiet, green leafy suburbs of Westchester County, to the concrete frenzy of Tokyo, Japan!

Now I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit to having my share of angst when Gary first came home one December evening in 1997 and told me about the new position being offered to him in Tokyo. Wanting to remain open-minded and supportive of his career, I responded (with a few tears in my eyes!), “Gee, couldn’t you just go to work in London or Paris? Japan is so far and I will never be able to communicate or get around!” The kids, then 8 and 11 years old, initially reacted with concerns more reflective of their own age and stage in life. Jamie cried that she would miss the opportunity to have the beloved Mrs. Kumar as her fourth grade teacher, and wondered how she would possibly learn to ride a bike without weekends cruising through the IBM parking lot. Josh worried about getting access to ESPN on TV and tracking the progress of the Knicks, Giants and Yankees. But for the most part, both were eager to go!

And so, we all followed their lead, took a leap of faith, believing that this experience would be incredibly cool (at a minimum!), and dove in with abandon, making the most out of our two years there. Through that experience we all learned an invaluable lesson about change; it can be stressful and sometimes even scary; but if you embrace it with enthusiasm and openness it can be an incredibly positive force in your life. The following quote perfectly captures this sentiment: “Continuity gives us roots; change gives us branches, letting us stretch and grow and reach new heights.”

Now, some 12 years after returning from that adventure in Japan, (and yes, Jamie did learn to ride a bike, and Josh continues to be a rabid sports junkie!) Gary and I are once again leaving our roots and embracing change. This time we are stretching even further, from our home in Goldens Bridge, New York—all the way to the suburbs of Johannesburg, South Africa. Again, IBM has provided us with an incredible opportunity, creating a new and challenging role for Gary as Chairman of Africa. And with my own passion for Africa, this time the news of our move was greeted without tears or angst, but instead with a genuine excitement over the chance to live in a country that I love and where I have focused my own work efforts for the last 6 years around The Gift of Hope. How lucky could we be?! After 32 years of marriage—when many couples find themselves diverging in their interests and often traveling down very different paths—Gary and I find our interests, work and passions converging around this amazing continent and, in particular, the people of South Africa. Once again, change, despite its inherent challenges, has proven to be a blessing for us, and we hope will be a source of great personal growth in the years ahead.

So here we are in Johannesburg, which locals affectionately refer to as Joburg or Jozi. Jozi is a city with a real cosmopolitan vibe, where the sun shines almost daily, and everyone we meet greets us with a friendly smile and a warm welcome. The northern suburbs are green and leafy, filled with large, beautiful homes, wonderful shops, and delicious restaurants. Saturday mornings begin at the local organic market, a blend of garden fresh produce, artisanal breads and cheeses, and all kinds of delicious prepared foods. Add an array of hand-made crafts and some live music, and it’s a formula for great fun!

But this is only a fraction of the portrait of a city that continues to be plagued by serious socioeconomic problems. Although Joburg is the financial engine of South Africa and perhaps even the continent, it is characterized by enormous disparities between rich and poor, black and white, those living in the northern suburbs and those in the heart of the city. There is high crime and poverty, ongoing inequality of opportunity, high rates of HIV/AIDS, and many other issues which are the legacy of years of an oppressive apartheid regime. While much progress has been made, much remains to be done. I hope to provide some insights into these challenges, as well as the positive change that is happening.

I hope you will join me on this adventure, which is my 2012 Journey of Hope. For me that hope exists on many levels. It is partially self-serving, as Gary and I search for adventure, personal growth and fulfillment, and connection to the people and cultures of Africa. But far more importantly, our hope is for the African people and their progress—for a strengthened health care system, a growing, vibrant and more inclusive economy, improved education and race relations, and so much more. This kind of change does not happen overnight, but hopefully we will have the opportunity to witness positive change and share it with you.

While I hope to actively engage with the Joburg community, my personal passion will frequently take me to Durban—a one-hour plane ride from Joburg—where I will expand my efforts around the Gift of Hope and other McCord Hospital projects. I look forward to sharing stories about the special children and women being supported through this program and to conveying to all of the many generous donors the hope you are bringing to the lives of those infected and affected with HIV. These stories should affirm the tremendous value of your support and inspire more people to become a part of this effort and join me in this Journey of Hope.

Common Threads

The gogo speaks in hushed tones in her native Zulu tongue. I listen, focusing on her expression, as I wait for the volunteer to begin translating her story into English. But even before I come to understand her words, the tone of her voice, the sagging of her shoulders and the sadness in her eyes speaks volumes-- telling the story of pain, loss and struggle that is nearly universal. It is a narrative which has unfolded repeatedly over the last few weeks as I have interviewed dozens of Zulu grandmothers, who form the foundation of so many families in this region of the world. Having lost their own children to AIDS, they are now caring for their grandchildren, struggling to cope and make ends meet. One granny describes her morning in this way.

"I woke up this morning worried about how I would cover the taxi fare to bring my grandson to the clinic. My only source of income is the cakes I bake and sell in the town. This morning I got up at 4am to bake cakes, but before they were finished my electricity had been shut off--my prepaid electric card ran out while the cakes were in the oven. Fortunately the cakes were baked enough for me to sell, so I walked in bare feet the distance from my home to the town, and sold my cakes for a total of 48 rand (approx $7.) I took 10 rand to buy bread and bologna for my grandson to have something to eat today, and I used 30 rand to get him here to the hospital."

While each woman's story is her own unique reality, they are more or less a variation on a theme-- common threads which when woven together paint a picture that is almost impossible to fathom. Loss, grief, and poverty form the bleak backdrop, and overlaid against this is the overwhelming responsibility of caring for numerous grandchildren and other extended family members, many of whom are infected with HIV. Most of these grannies live a distance from the hospital, in one of the surrounding townships, all of which are characterized by high unemployment, poverty and HIV prevalence. They often share a small over crowded home, sometimes with 8 to 10 people living in four rooms, and no meaningful source of income to support the family's most basic needs. Daily life is a struggle for these women, who have already suffered the loss of their own children to AIDS. Rarely are they even afforded the time or luxury to properly grieve. Many only become aware of the diagnosis and cause of death of their children after their passing. Tragically, the shame and stigma surrounding HIV/AIDS frequently silences those who are sick, preventing them from seeking the treatment that might well have saved their lives. One granny tells me about loosing her daughter to AIDS...

"My granddaughter was living with her mother and father when her mother was getting so sick. She died and they buried her by the house. I didn't even know about her illness..., she hid it. I only found out later after she was gone. I found the bag of pills where she was living and I said to myself, "why is she hiding this thing?" She didn't take the ARVs, she didn't even die in the hospital. She died in the house. She didn't get any help."

Left in the tragic wake of their death are the true innocent victims--the AIDS orphans, many of whom are infected with HIV through mother to child transmission. Most have no knowledge of their biological fathers, and most will grow up never having a father figure in their lives. Instead, they will depend on their elderly grandmothers for their emotional and physical well-being, both of which are often in serious jeopardy. Over time the children typically show signs of illness; unable to eat, crying with pain, covered in bodily sores. The local clinic is slow to make a diagnosis, the care at the government hospital is totally lacking and inadequate, and the grandmothers continue to feel lost and hopeless, fearing the fate of her children will come to the next generation.

"When I came here to Sinikithemba with Cindy she couldn't even eat. Her throat inside was red and something was growing inside. I didn't know what I must do because her mother passed away in May 2008 and now Cindy has the same sickness her mother had. I am saying to myself, "oh my god, I am going to lose this one too."

Common threads are woven through the painful stories of these women's lives. Yet amazingly, they find the strength to carry on, sacrificing everything for the children they are now devoted to helping and healing. They have found their way to Sinikithemba, a special place of care and compassion, and with that they've found hope and a reason to rejoice. Sinikthemba is a Zulu word which means "we give hope", and that is exactly what it represents to the lives of these women, and the children they care for; hope for their health and their future.

These grannies arrive at Sinikithemba with little more than their fears, their pain and their prayers. And with the care and skills provided by an amazing team of practitioners and counselors, and financial support from Gift of Hope donors, their lives and those of their grandchildren are soon transformed. They still face enormous challenges that most of us cannot begin to comprehend. But soon hope replaces hopelessness, sickness gradually turns to health, and the color and light previously absent from their lives begins to shine. You can see it in their smile and hear it in their voices and their heartfelt words of appreciation.

"I'd lost hope and was afraid for my grandchild, because he had been tested for HIV soon after my daughter passed away and I was afraid he would follow. But Sinikithemba gave me hope that things would be ok and that he could also live a full life."

Another granny describes how she felt after coming to Sinikithemba and learning her grand daughter would be sponsored for care and treatment through the Gift of Hope.

"I am feeling much better now and when Lungile told me about the sponsorship I said, ' ohhhhh…you are taking all of the weight off of my shoulders. I used to pay for a taxi for Notokozo and myself, and then I come and pay here at the hospital too, and all the money was gone. I don’t know what I can possibly say. I am very grateful and very happy to be here at Sinikithemba. I took her to another government hospital and they didn't do anything. Maybe Nontokozo would have passed a way by now if we didn’t find this place…that’s the truth.
The people from Sinikithemba help me so much. I don't care how far it is from my house I want to come here. I just want to stay here..."

Yes, for me the gogos share one overarching common thread...they are all the true and unsung heroes of the HIV/AIDS epidemic. They give so much when they have so little, and rescue the children they love at a time that they too could use some rescuing. I marvel at their strength and courage, their commitment and sacrifice. And to hear their expressions of hope and gratitude, and see the smile on their faces and the love in their hearts, it to truly feel joy for another person...and no one deserves it more than these gogos.