Clubfoot

The Friday afternoon right before I left for the States, I was taking my usual route home from work when a woman called me over to her fence.  Her kids are always saying hi to me as I walk by, but I hadn’t ever really stopped and spoken to her.  She was carrying a young boy in her arms, he wasn’t an infant, maybe 3 years or 4. It was hard for me to tell.

She showed me his feet, which were both Club.  She was asking me for help.  Wearing white skin means that people will look at me and hope I have money or connections or something that will help them. Usually it is kids asking me for money, which I don’t give because I wouldn’t have enough to plug the hole of need in that department and how would I decide who should receive my meager earnings.  It is not because they are lazy or unwilling to work. For some, they are unable to work, for others, there are no jobs. For others still, they work but don’t make enough money to make ends meet in a culture where you share whatever you have with your family, and your family included uncles, aunts, cousins, and the like.  It isn’t culturally appropriate to have a bunch of food or money or whatever and not give it when needed.

So not only am I white, but I am culturally inappropriate, walking by poor families and not giving them everything I have because they need it too. I know my giving everything won’t solve their problems – it is about find ways to help them do better for themselves – gardens, education, small businesses, savings plans, jobs and hope for the future. Of course, I can’t do all that for them either.

But today, this Friday afternoon, I am being asked to move a mountain taller than any of those surrounding our small village.  This mother asked me to help her son.  I looked at his legs, his soft little feet and realized that without medical care – the prolonged bracing process and eventual surgery, this boy would never walk on his feet the way god intended. He would undoubtedly be given crutches, routed out of the regular school system into Camphill (lucky for him he actually lives here where the school is located, rather than across the country), and the expectations for his education and life in general, greatly reduced. If he is lucky and gets into the school early and is loved, cared for and protected by his family, he won’t be subject to the physical and sexual violence people with disabilities often have forced upon them by the cruel and ignorant. But he will always be in physical pain. 

The mother showed me his health records briefly and yes, he has been diagnosed, but either because of her ignorance or the system not having the resources, nothing had been done for him.  My friend Byrd in Eureka had hosted a fundraiser for a former PC volunteer’s nonprofit that goes to Nicaragua to do surgeries for club foot, so I wondered what existed in Botswana.  I did an internet search and found the closest organization in South Africa and received information from its founder that showed me some hope, but also that this process, given this child is no longer an infant, would be long and arduous.

On my flight back from the States, I sat next to a South African doctor who teaches emergency medical care to ER staff around the world. He told me that the Princess Marina hospital in Gaborone (a public hospital) does, in fact, do this kind of surgery.  So now, I need to find out from the S. African organization how much this whole process will cost and what it entails, find out from Princess Marina if they do, in fact do it, and talk to the mother about whether she is ready to take this on and what  will happen if she does or doesn’t. 

Since this isn’t directly related to HIV/AIDS I guess anything I can do will get documented in the small space on our reports for secondary projects. Documentation schmocumentation. Seeing this kid’s two possible lives, depending on which road he quite literally is able to walk down, is going to be a huge burden if I don’t pick it up. 

Today, I walked by the house on my first day back to work. There was a dog and some chickens in the yard, but no sign of anyone else. No kids, no women cooking outside.  To be continued.