Author´s Note: This entry is not the typical smiles and sunshine, but focused on the harsh reality of living in a region with an extremely high infant mortality rate.
The sun filters through the trees, casting columns of light. A gentle breeze makes shadows dance on the ground as the trees cry out. A child sits on a rock crying violently. A man leads the community in prayer. The women follow. Their song is tragically beautiful, weaving between harmony and dissonance. I have goosebumps and begin to cry.
Even as I write, I have trouble distilling what it is I want to say.
How do you describe a needless funeral? I took photos of the unnamed boy a few months ago. After only eight months, he didn't need to die. The baby basically died of dehydration. Most likely a parasite from contaminated drinking water led to his vomiting and diarrhea. After a few days without proper care and hydration, his organs started to fail, his breathing quick and erratic. I know because I was there. I was there trying to tell the community to keep him hydrated. I brought chicha. I stayed during the night next to the abuelas sleeping on the wooden floor of their Mama Tata church. I tried to help, tried to convince them to give the child more to drink, tried to convince them to take the child to the hospital.
How do you describe a community so used to babies dying? They wanted me to bring my camera to take photos. I have to say it was extremely uncomfortable taking photos at such a time. For them, there was more comfort. They wanted the memory of this moment just as they wanted the memories of the child in life. Tragically, the baby's grave was next to other freshly turned dirt. In the past month alone, four babies have passed away, three of similar causes. The Ngabes seldom name their children until they're a few years old. They ask me if this happens back at home. What do you say to that? No, not really. I can't think of a family that has had to suffer the loss of a child. That's because that child was born in a world-class hospital, fed a nutritious diet, drank treated water, was cleaned constantly, and was taken to the hospital immediately after the slightest problem. We are worlds apart. We are extremely lucky.
The need is here. The need is immediate. As I think about my life back home or even during pre-service training, the notion of burying four babies in one month seems ludicrous, so completely foreign. And for these people, the idea of not dealing with these losses at such a young age must seem foreign as well. And that's the rub. That's the gap. That's the frustration. That's why my words about hydration fell on deaf ears.
This is the ground floor. The only educated people in my community are the children and they aren't exactly getting bombarded with public health information in the middle of the jungle. The past month has been exhausting, but also reaffirms the importance in my being there. As tragic as this all has been, it makes me want to fight that much harder. It doesn't have to be this way. I hope that as I pack my bags to return to a privileged life back in the States, my words will stay. In the end, education will last longer than any tubes buried in the jungle.
I don't really know how to incorporate these final thoughts, but as I stood there listening to the Ngabere hymn, I couldn´t help but think how this community has taken me in. I stood shoulder to shoulder with the men of the community, participating in a truly intense experience. As cold as their culture can be at times, they let me in to this private moment. Afterwards, one of the muchachos that I teach English asked if funerals were the same back at home. Though the coffin isn't built hours before and lowered into the ground with twine, the experience is similar. We all deal with death. Death is a part of life for everyone. We may have our different customs, but it is a common thread. I told him that I come from a place far away, somewhere very different in many ways, but that today was very similar. It was also a day where I felt more human than white, part of something much larger. And while the day was marked with an aching sadness, I also felt more whole than I´ve felt in awhile.
Author´s Note: Unfortunately, this is not a problem limited to just a few communities. Here is a link to a fellow volunteer´s blog. She lives in the same general region in Panama in another Ngabe site.
Peace in Panama
The sun filters through the trees, casting columns of light. A gentle breeze makes shadows dance on the ground as the trees cry out. A child sits on a rock crying violently. A man leads the community in prayer. The women follow. Their song is tragically beautiful, weaving between harmony and dissonance. I have goosebumps and begin to cry.
Even as I write, I have trouble distilling what it is I want to say.
How do you describe a needless funeral? I took photos of the unnamed boy a few months ago. After only eight months, he didn't need to die. The baby basically died of dehydration. Most likely a parasite from contaminated drinking water led to his vomiting and diarrhea. After a few days without proper care and hydration, his organs started to fail, his breathing quick and erratic. I know because I was there. I was there trying to tell the community to keep him hydrated. I brought chicha. I stayed during the night next to the abuelas sleeping on the wooden floor of their Mama Tata church. I tried to help, tried to convince them to give the child more to drink, tried to convince them to take the child to the hospital.
How do you describe a community so used to babies dying? They wanted me to bring my camera to take photos. I have to say it was extremely uncomfortable taking photos at such a time. For them, there was more comfort. They wanted the memory of this moment just as they wanted the memories of the child in life. Tragically, the baby's grave was next to other freshly turned dirt. In the past month alone, four babies have passed away, three of similar causes. The Ngabes seldom name their children until they're a few years old. They ask me if this happens back at home. What do you say to that? No, not really. I can't think of a family that has had to suffer the loss of a child. That's because that child was born in a world-class hospital, fed a nutritious diet, drank treated water, was cleaned constantly, and was taken to the hospital immediately after the slightest problem. We are worlds apart. We are extremely lucky.
The need is here. The need is immediate. As I think about my life back home or even during pre-service training, the notion of burying four babies in one month seems ludicrous, so completely foreign. And for these people, the idea of not dealing with these losses at such a young age must seem foreign as well. And that's the rub. That's the gap. That's the frustration. That's why my words about hydration fell on deaf ears.
This is the ground floor. The only educated people in my community are the children and they aren't exactly getting bombarded with public health information in the middle of the jungle. The past month has been exhausting, but also reaffirms the importance in my being there. As tragic as this all has been, it makes me want to fight that much harder. It doesn't have to be this way. I hope that as I pack my bags to return to a privileged life back in the States, my words will stay. In the end, education will last longer than any tubes buried in the jungle.
I don't really know how to incorporate these final thoughts, but as I stood there listening to the Ngabere hymn, I couldn´t help but think how this community has taken me in. I stood shoulder to shoulder with the men of the community, participating in a truly intense experience. As cold as their culture can be at times, they let me in to this private moment. Afterwards, one of the muchachos that I teach English asked if funerals were the same back at home. Though the coffin isn't built hours before and lowered into the ground with twine, the experience is similar. We all deal with death. Death is a part of life for everyone. We may have our different customs, but it is a common thread. I told him that I come from a place far away, somewhere very different in many ways, but that today was very similar. It was also a day where I felt more human than white, part of something much larger. And while the day was marked with an aching sadness, I also felt more whole than I´ve felt in awhile.
Author´s Note: Unfortunately, this is not a problem limited to just a few communities. Here is a link to a fellow volunteer´s blog. She lives in the same general region in Panama in another Ngabe site.
Peace in Panama
