Marching...Somewhere

I was sitting in my friend’s living room wearing sandals while she had bundled herself in a sweater, coat, and blanket. We were watching a South African gospel concert on DVD. After the customary greetings, I asked her, more informally, “How are you?”

“Actually, I am on leave. Sick leave. They found TB.”

It was only in the last month or so that I had realized that my friend was probably HIV-positive or living with AIDS. She is a volunteer with Treatment Action Campaign (TAC), which works to fight HIV/AIDS through treatment and education outreach programs. She often wears TAC t-shirts that boldly declare: “HIV POSITIVE” but she had never actually told me her status. Whether my culture or character caused me to refrain from making assumptions, I’m not sure. But the other day, after reviewing pictures of us when we’d met about nine months ago, it became clear how much weight she’d lost over the last few months.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

“Fine, I feel fine.”

She is not one to lie or put on a front; I believed her. This was reassuring—but only somewhat. We hear of so many deaths in South Africa due to TB, and most of these people acquired TB as a result of a weakened immune system. At least my friend was getting treatment at the local clinic.

On TV, the preacher was enthusiastically leading the gospel choir in a song called “March to Heaven.” Many of the women were plump, boasting glowing skin. For them heaven was probably a long way off—it sounded like a lovely, mythical place to rest after a full, weary life. But it was hard to imagine my friend up there marching with the same passion. Heaven is nearer for her. I looked up at the school photos of her bright-eyed daughter mounted above the television. Like other terminally ill mothers and fathers, she had to confront the bitter knowledge that she would probably never see her daughter graduate or fall in love.

Who am I in the midst of this? A privileged American spending two years among people suffering the ongoing absence of an effective national program to educate its citizens about HIV/AIDS, to provide treatment options, to provide compassionate care. Ah, South Africa, the great paradox. The country is hosting the 2010 FIFA World Cup. In the capital there are dazzling billboards promoting new, elaborate stadiums. Children in rural villages already sport 2010 hats and socks. The nation is—and should be—proud to host such a globally significant affair. But while a lot of time is spent hyping a sports event, the government is reluctant to create a viable HIV/AIDS treatment program. Instead of making anti-retroviral treatment more easily available in the hard-hit rural areas, government officials have suggested people living with AIDS eat more garlic and beetroot. Efforts to educate, treat, and support the millions of South Africans affected by HIV/AIDS fall to the community-based organizations.

Who am I in the midst of this? I suppose you could say I am an American privileged to spend two years in the company of one brave South African who is doing for her community what the government will not—informing, educating, and encouraging people living with AIDS.

For more about HIV/AIDS in South Africa:

AVERT—International AIDS Charity: www.avert.org/aidssouthafrica.htm Treatment Action Campaign: www.tac.org.za