Saturday 2nd November
I’ve been
working at Serenity Harm Reduction Programme Zambia (SHARPZ ) for two years now
and how much I have learned! Probably I could say that these two years have
been two of the most difficult of my religious life. I did not choose to live in Lusaka and initially
felt like one turned upside down and shaken till all my pockets were emptied.
All my lowness of spirit, misery and despair seemed to find an outlet and
meaning in the men and women I subsequently worked with those two intense days every
week. Alcoholism, drugs, depression, eating disorder, life on the streets,
family disaffection- I was amazed at how I could apply the tools of the counselling
trade when I was in such a mess myself!
Invariably though, when I most immediately and
personally assaulted by my own fears, anger and hurt- that is when I must
slowly once again turn to those inner resources within to befriend what is
strange, frightening, definitely not wanted in my life, in a positive and
gentle way. That is when I am again
grounded in wholeness and healing. It is
as though I have to get out my own map.
In such painful learning, knowledge of the way to healing becomes
personal, and fresh. So when someone particularly broken or traumatised was
referred to us, I felt my own lost spirit sit up, alert. I began to recognise how
fear works, how it paralyses and pins down. Even though I felt tentative at
first with a client, I knew from my inside what it means to be
befriended when lost. When a way forward is shown, energy starts stirring, and
with it, hope. Of course I learned so
much from Sr. Helen. We worked closely together each week; particularly in the
weekly men’s therapy every Tuesday for the two hours. The men made it of
course, but we felt like midwives, bringing life to birth.
Mutama
joined our weekly group from out of town; six hours journey. He was a thin rake of six feet. He had been briefly in prison after one
night’s drunken fight with a fellow security guard, who later died in hospital.
Mutama had been drinking since he left school.
Estranged from his family, only Rachel his younger sister supported him
and brought him to our programme. He
responded well, and alternating between sobriety and break outs, managed an
erratic yet steady return to independent
living and friendlier terms with his father, (so precious to both), finding
rented accommodation and moved permanently to Lusaka. Rachel, by now working in Botswana, was
sending him money, and urging him to undertake some small business enterprise.
Between them they devised a chicken selling trade whereby Mutama would go at
dawn to central market and buy cheap from a Chinese business man and sell in
the compounds at a slightly higher price. Lu was his partner; Mutama brought him to join us in a session!
Then for a
month or so, Mutama dropped out. “What’s happening, Mutama?” I asked when at
last he answered his phone. “Ah Sister, I’m so lonely! I don’t know anyone
here!” More family conferencing ensued.
Then in the New Year, Mutama began more individual therapy with us and as well
resumed accountancy studies in a top Lusaka Accountancy College; even working
with Beth our Administrator, (who spent hours with him on the computer) for
hands on experience, in pro bono work.
Fantastic the difference! Mutama was happy- occupied, and supported. He
had companionship, hope and studied hard.
I’m not sure how assiduous he was with his chickens, but who could ask
more? He seemed to be getting thinner and thinner.
“Sister,
Mutama is ill. After his final exam, we’re
taking him back to Copperbelt for tests.” An email from Rachel, by now married
in UK. “I’ll be in Lusaka at the end of the week.” That’s how we sat down;
Beth, Helen and I, with Rachel. Despite the constant communication this was the
first time I’d met her, though Mutama had shown me her photo. “Who’s that
little girl?” I asked him. “That’s Rachel!” said Mutama grinning, “She’s my young
sister!” And here she was; not only Rachel but Mutama’s step mother. She and Mutama had long reconciled. “You see
Sister, Mutama is HIV positive!” We all drew in our breath sharply then sat
still for several minutes, silent and stunned. We didn’t think of HIV! I
thought of Mutama’s long struggle, and all he had mastered. Then Rachel started
sobbing. We just sat closer, hardly
daring to look at each other. It was a bitter
acceptance we shared; and we prayed quietly together. Then bade gentle farewells and watched the
two women walk sadly away. Maybe he can
pick up with ARVs, I thought. “You get well, Mutama, I told him, when he
rang. College has given a room for you!
You can yet marry and have children!” He was 26. But everything packed up on
him; liver, kidneys and he died. God! We mourned him and prayed for him in a
small prayer service, one month after his funeral; recounting his stories, his
joyful returns to family intimacy, his pride in academic progress, his being
able to work! That’s when we began
talking about sexual health far more explicitly, consciously in the group. We
owed that to Mutama.
Love, lots of it,
Marie