The AIDS Village

During the International AIDS Conference (which was held in Toronto), World Vision presented

"A 3,000-square foot interactive audio tour through an African village. Each visitor will experience what life is like in the life of one of four children affected by HIV and AIDS."

My parents and I attended, while in town to see Spamalot (a strange combination, I grant you). It was right downtown, in the heart (bowels?) of the business district, and a shiney looking blond man stood out in front inviting people in. He too seemed a strange juxtaposition to the heartrending World Vision commerical playing over and over on a large television across from where we, and 12 others of varrying ancestry, waited to be given our headset, and start our tour.

"I only have one life."

We are each handed a MP3 player (how high tech we are) labled with the name of one child. I am given Timothy, and walk through to the first room. I should be thinking about my little boy, who is from Uganda, but instead I am thinking how well organized this is, as only one person is in each area at the same time.

On the walls are pictures of Timothy, who is 5, his village, friends, and family. There is one picture of him playing soccer outside a school. For the first time in months I remember the school house in the middle of nowhere, lost at the bottom of a hill on the Enkosini property in South Africa. I remember sitting in the trunk of the truck holding a pot of stew and trying to keep it from spilling, as we rode down to see the children.

Though both times I went a group of eager young artists painted my face, layer upon layer, colour upon colour, til I looked like dishwater and felt a rainbow, most of the group went off to the far end of the field, avoiding the chickens and pigs as they went, to play "football". Some of the kids were fantastic, and one boy seemed to have an unequal status of respect amongst them for being the best player. I wonder if Timothy plays in a field like this, dodging livestock and dreaming of glory.

By the time I have made it out of that room, Timothy's father has died, due to the presence of "The Traveler", a disease that makes him tired. In the next he loses several sisters, aunts, uncles and, finally his mother. I have stopped feeling sorry for him/me; your mind can only process so much sadness at one time. Of course, I first realized that in Africa, in the orphanage. It was not the place, or the staff, or the children themselves; for the most part they were cheerful and thankfully oblivious to the perils of the future. It was the first time I realized that even though only a few of our kids had AIDS now, the national statistics (1 in 3, I believe) will eventually sentence so many more. "What is the point?", you think, and then you stop thinking, because there is no answer.

Timothy is 10 now, and living with an aunt and an orphaned cousin. The next room I enter is larger, and filled with people following all four children. We're in an AIDS clinic now, sitting on hard wooden benches, waiting for our results. We wait a minute, in silence. The voice on the tape tells us to go to the front, and a woman behind a glass window hands me a piece of paper. I can't look at it until I am out of the room, away from the others who will not be paying attention anyway, but focused on their own future. On the paper is a red plus sign. Timothy has AIDS.

There is very little else to say. When World Vision finished gathering information for the display Timothy was still living with the aunt, dreaming of his future. I wonder if he realizes how short that will be?

All in all I think the display was excellent, interesting and well done. So why did it make me so angry? It made me angry, because as we stepped back out into the blinding sunshine and traffic of downtown Toronto that day, I felt nothing for the little boy I had just shared half an hour with. I was completely numb to his suffering.

What I was thinking about was the children I myself had seen while in South Africa, some of whom really did have HIV. I thought about those children and how hopeless I felt being there, being useless, and still caring. I thought about days in the baby house when I would be laughing, playing with a child and then go into the bathroom and cry because I wanted so badly to help and didn't know how. Those faces, those spirits are with me even here, a little like ghosts, though still alive. You push them out of your mind because it is such a weight to carry, it is hard to feel guilty all the time. But they don't go away. And it's not that I want them to, but I am longing to turn to the next person in line and say "This is real, these people, this suffering is real, however far away it seems." I know. I've seen it.

N.