Letters from Africa One woman, one child: A Houstonian writes home about her work with the children orphaned by AIDS in Zimbabwe by Arden O’Donnell

Editor’s note: We first ran an article last month on Arden O’Donnell and her six-month sojourn in Zimbabwe working with AIDS orphans. But as we read more of her indepth letters to her community back home, we felt this story needed more space in the magazine.

We’ve read articles about AIDS in Africa; we know the heart-quelling statistics. We know this is a crisis that defies understanding. But sometimes–as we scoot about Montrose in our Starbucks and Bocados life–Africa can seem so unreal. As good as our intentions are, it can be hard to truly realize what is happening with our fellow humans. And even more, it is hard to feel like anything we do here can help with what is happening there.

In reading the account of her work in Zimbabwe, the children she grew to be close to, her descriptions of their lives, we felt we’d been given a window into what is happening with AIDS in Africa–it helped us feel connected in a real way. We hope you feel the same.

My name is Arden O’Donnell. I was born and raised in Houston and I am currently at Boston University studying to get my master’s in public health. After graduating from Mount Holyoke College in 1997, I returned to Houston and I worked at the Center for AIDS. During this time I became very involved in community. I was a co-chair of the 1999 HRC winter gala and a participant in the GLBT Chamber of Commerce’s Leading and Learning. I had been raised in the gay community. I was lucky enough to have a gay father. My father, John O’Donnell, was an amazing man and an incredible activist. He helped found the Montrose Counseling Center and Body Positive; he was a facilitator for Bering and Friends Support Group and involved with Bering Care Center. He died of HIV in September 1999 just before I left to pursue my career in public health. My experience of living with a parent who is HIV-positive inspired me to help other children who have lost their parents to AIDS. As part of my school work I decided to travel to Zimbabwe for six months and work in a center for AIDS orphans. Three of us went together–Alison Phillips, Amy Carrol, and myself–and I am grateful for our ability to support each other through this experience.

January 25, 2001

First impressions

I have just arrived in Zimbabwe and am beginning to work at the Tsungirirai center for AIDS orphans. It is a nonprofit organization based about 45 minutes outside of Harare. The program is well run and providing incredible support to their clients. I live at the center in one of the two blocks built for housing accommodations, which are also used for temporary housing of AIDS orphans when they are here for skills training. Right now there is a group of 20 girls aged 15 to 19 here for a dressmaking course. These girls face all the problems that orphans in this country face: They have no parents so they cannot pay for their school fees [unlike the U.S., school is not free here], and since many of these orphans have been out of school for a few years, the agency is teaching them a skill which will be marketable and income generating. There is also a pre-school on site and the kids are adorable. All are orphans, but very few are actually HIV positive (most HIV-positive children die before age two in this country).

One of the first days, I met a woman who I will call Mary–she is HIV positive and has three children, two girls ages 14 and 12, and a boy age 8. It was obvious she had full-blown AIDS; she was wasting, she described the pins and needle feelings in her legs from the knee down and I knew it was neuropathy, she had chronic diarrhea and thrush. She also casually mentioned she had tuberculosis. I sat there dumbfounded. Alison gave nutrition advice for the diarrhea and I told her I would read in David Werner’s book Where There Is No Doctor and see if I could find any suggestions. I went to my room and read some basics: Nothing for neuropathy, but eating yogurt might be able to help the thrush.

Later that day I met her oldest daughter and she took us to their house. It was actually a room about 5 by 10 feet where all four slept. I knew they cooked outside on the fire, but I saw no food. I talked to her a little and suggested the yogurt for her thrush; she smiled, but I knew they did not have the money to even buy this. I heard her cough and I realized all four of them were living in this one room, with one small window. I looked at the kids; this was the perfect setting to spread TB to all three. I thought of the rules about TB: Do not sleep with a person with TB; if living with them, make sure it is in well-ventilated rooms. This family could not afford this room; I hardly could suggest separate rooms for the kids. I left feeling helpless.

I could not fall asleep thinking about those kids. What are they going to do when she dies? Right now the center is feeding all three kids breakfast and lunch and picking up the school fees, but when she dies (which I am sure will be before I leave) what will they do? It will be a child-run household and the 14-year-old girl will be in charge. Without an education she cannot get a job and the unemployment is rampant. She has no land to farm, and even marriage is not a possibility with two siblings to care for. . . .

March 15, 2001

Heavens and hells

My alarm goes off at 7. I sit up and peer out the window and see Sekuru raising the flag. I look at the logo, Tsungirirai–translated it means "To Persevere and have Courage"–and I think about the kids that are helped here and I think the motto is perfect. I open my window. Kerina sees me, waves and calls, "Manguanani, Arden." "Manguanani," I call as I open the window and smell the fresh air. The sun is high in the sky and I can see the steady stream of people walking on the road–a man in a suit and a tie, a woman in a brightly colored skirt who is carrying a large pile sack of maize on her head, multiple groups of children in red-and-blue-checkered school uniforms.

Today is the day we were going to visit the first group of people living in the community. I am scared and was glad we agreed on only four houses.

The first woman we visited was Mary, the woman I’d met earlier. The center had given her food, and she was looking better. I was relieved. We sat and talked for a little while and then it was time to go. The home-based care worker looked at me and I had no idea what she wanted. "They need a prayer," she said. I was stunned. Luckily, Alison picked up the ball and began to pray. I just kept thinking, Of course she needs a prayer, it is the only medicine she has.

The other two houses both had sick people of varying stages, none of which we could offer any medicine, but luckily Alison was able to provide nutritional counseling. In the last home, we were talking to the woman who said it was painful to breastfeed because she had an infection in her breast. She was so wasted; I knew before I even saw her child, he had to be HIV positive. She brought the child to me and set him in my arms. He was one year old but couldn’t have weighed more than 10 pounds; his lymph nodes were so swollen, his face looked disproportionately large. I held the child for awhile, his eyes were still bright but I could tell he was in pain. I just held him, trying to comfort him and wishing I could do something. If we were in the States there would be medication; if we were in the States most likely this child would have never been positive.

We left the house and headed back to the center, no one saying a word. As we walked in the gate three kids came rushing toward us with huge smiles on their faces, each wearing a sun hat. Some donors had sent money to buy hats for the kids and they were ecstatic. I was swept away to the cement court to play ball, then to help with homework. As I was helping one child with math, a little boy about four crawled into my lap. I hugged him and rubbed his back; soon his sunhat had slipped off and he was asleep. This one was one of the lucky ones–poor and parentless, but HIV negative. "This job has heavens and hells," the director had said one of the first days. She never told me they could be in the same day.

March 31, 2001

The work

We have decided to establish an orphan profile on each child. The agency has been helping the children but has very few individual statistics or any way to "prove" the impact on the children. On our assessment we check for toilets, electricity, food in the home, if there is a garden or radio (to determine wealth).

The first house we went to was that of Dennis. I know the child and he is a happy kid that seems well-adjusted. They had electricity, a radio, there was food, and Dennis shared a bed with three kids. Dennis is being cared for by his mother’s sister. His mother died two years ago, but he does not remember her; he thinks his aunt is his mother. We filled out the forms and left; it was not hard and I was relieved. But after we had walked about a block, Vitalis, our interpreter and the one in charge of the center program, said, "I am not sure we can keep helping that family, he is very well off." This statement should have prepared me for the rest of the day, but it didn’t.

We left the first neighborhood and went into Kitanga. As we walked down the back streets, the houses got worse and worse; instead of concrete walls, they were shacks thrown together with sheet-metal pieces.

We walked to one of these houses and Vitalis said, "This is where Gilbert lives." He is the one who showed up with ringworm the other day. We were introduced to his mother who invited us to sit outside under the tree. Everyone else had invited us in, but in this case, there was no real inside. The dirt area that had been made a yard was swept clean, and I made a note that it seemed that the less a family had, the more clean they kept the yard. I sat down on the ground and began to assess the "house"–there was no electricity, the cooking area was just a piece of wood under a metal frame with one pot, no garden, no food in sight. There was no point in asking about a bed; I knew it was lucky if the four living in the shack had a blanket to share. The father had died and they were forced out of their house and into this shack; they were squatters on this land. I looked at his mother and she was apparently sick. I thought about Gilbert and how he is always hanging around after lunch. Now I understood: What we feed him at the center is the only meal he gets all day. If they had had extended family, they would be living with them. I thought back on a few other houses we had visited, and in many cases someone would take the orphan . . . in this one, there was no one.

For the next three days we visited house after house; they ranged from people who did have food, to those, like Gilbert, with absolutely nothing. The children who still had one parent alive and were living with a grandparent were the ones who were surviving the best. The feeling in each house was different–some seemed to be coping and others just seemed to be living in desperation. Many times these were the kids we see sticking around long after school is over.

I made mental notes about the families in the worst condition, and the next day I returned to two houses with some food for them. I know this was not the best thing to do–I am not sustainable, it was a band-aid on the problem–but I also know the agency is doing everything they can; they are paying school fees and giving the kids two meals a day. I just wanted to do more.

We talked to Vitalis and he agreed that it was good to try to start a sponsorship program for these kids, or get donations that could be used for food for some of the worst families. He calculated out what it would cost to help the kids and support the family in small ways–he said it would be about $200 U.S. dollars a year. This amazed me. Less than $20 a month. I kept thinking, I know so many people that could pay $20 a month! Then I stopped myself because I felt like I was turning into one of those "Save the Children" commercials. I remember seeing on TV the commercials, "For the cost of one cup of coffee a day you can save a child." As I was watching that commercial I would usually sip my coffee, flip the channel, and think, "Oh yeah, sure. How much can that little really help, and how much do those kids really get?"

It is so hard to look at these kids and want to help and not know how to do it. What they need is a parent to love them and to have someone to pay attention to them. Most of them don’t have this. If they have lost one parent, most times the other is sick. And if they have lost both, they are just a child being cared for by a grandmother or aunt.

The other day a little boy came up to me and tapped me on the shoulder. I looked down and he pulled the collar of his shirt down to reveal a small scrape. I looked at it and began to just brush it off–he was a little boy, of course he had a scrape. But then I looked at him and thought, "What does he really want?" I smiled and took his hand and took him into my room. I talked to him a little, put a little Neosporin on his scrape and a band-aid. I gave him a hug and sent him off. The smile on his face was priceless.

I walked back to the office and just felt so sad. That is the most attention that child will get all day. It breaks my heart–I know that giving them food and school fees is not enough–I think I want to sponsor that kid. I think about how many kids I can really dedicate myself to write every few months. In some ways it does not seem like enough, but in some ways I think it is everything to the kid: a meal, food, and a friend to write.

It is so hard because although AIDS is the root of the problem over here, the needs are so much more basic for these kids. Where do I start to help? Do I help these kids by paying for school fees and keeping them in school and give them some food and security so they do not go to the streets? Or do I try to help keep their parents alive by fighting for basic drugs in this country?

April 25, 2001

Time off with hippos and alligators

We were fortunate enough to be able to take two weeks off to travel throughout Zimbabwe. We had initially intended to go white-water rafting, but the falls were too full, so we settled for what we thought was going to be a relaxing canoe safari.

I never had any respect for hippos before. Now, I not only have respect but fear. I found out (when I was already in the water) that hippos are one of the most dangerous animals. They have a reputation of coming up under the canoes and knocking them over, and if they can catch you they will kill you. GREAT. Also (unknown to me before we entered the water), there are alligators on the bank which also have the ability to jump and can jump into a boat. (These will kill you also.) There was one time that I really thought I was going to be eaten. The guide just kept saying, "Paddle faster, be strong, be strong."

Why school shoes are more important than food

As our time is coming to an end, we have been frantically trying to set up some projects for the kids that will continue after we have gone. One day I was sitting outside and this kid came up to me with a bike made out of wire. It was really well done and even included brake lines from the handle bar and moving pedals. I asked him where he got it and he told me he made it. I thought, "I could sell these!" So I sent out an e-mail with a picture and have been getting orders–all the money is going toward school supplies, a field trip, and a kids’ activity fund.

Four boys have become leaders and are making the major parts of the bikes. We wanted to do something special for them, so I asked them what they would like. The answer was "school shoes." I went and priced them and they cost about 850 Zim, which is about $15.

After we got shoes I went to one kid’s house. There were five staying in a room and they had one blanket for the bed. There were no windows and no toilet. I could see the shelf where food could be stored and it was empty except for a bottle of cooking oil. The grandmother thanked me profusely for the shoes, but as I looked around, I thought, "Why didn’t I buy food?" The next day I began asking kids about food issues and about what it is like to be an orphan, and I think that the biggest thing the kids are missing is the support and attention you get from a parent. They can survive on the two meals a day given to them by the center, but what they are really lacking is a sense of worth.

Shoes mean you have a possession, and on some level it is an outward sign of worth. I think the hardest thing for most of these kids is not having anyone who really believes in them. It is very hard to receive individual attention when you are one of five kids your grandmother is caring for. It is amazing to see the changes in these kids when I just begin to show an interest in them. In the same way, the bike project is doing so much for these children. First, it is giving them something to work for. We asked them what they wanted and they all talked about a field trip. Again, food was not a priority, it was the trip; they wanted to be able to be a normal kid and go on the field trip. Second, it has given them something to be proud of–they all walk around with their bikes and all the staff asks to see the bike and praises the kids. I know that sounds basic, but just one minute of individual attention really can affect these kids.

If you want to help

If you would like to help the children in the Tsungirirai center, you can mail checks made out to Friends of Tsungirirai, 802 Centre Street #1, Jamaica Plain, MA 02130. Or directly to Tsungirirai, P.O Box 107, Norton, Zimbabwe. They have a website at www.tsungirirai.org.

"I can promise anyone that sends money that it is going directly to the kids," Arden O’Donnell says.

You can sponsor a child for $225 a year (multiple installments are fine)–this will cover schooling, food, and a few basic necessities. You will receive a sponsorship packet, a picture of the child, and can write letters or e-mail each other. The children can write English well.

Any amount of money can help. $25 can send a child to school for the year. $15 can pay for their uniform or a pair of shoes. $20 can buy food for a month. $10 can buy a blanket.

You can also buy the miniature bikes made by the children–all money goes to their school activity funds. The bikes are $6, and can be ordered by sending an e-mail to bikes_for_orphans@hotmail.com.

Although Arden O’Donnell returned to the United States in June, she’s happy to answer any questions or facilitate any help to the center. She can be e-mailed at AEO@BU.edu.