Rwanda/Zaire - August 1994 - Chapter 9 - Just a Hug - CARE AUSTRALIA

Waving, I pass the American soldiers guarding the water purification plant at the bottom of the road on the banks of Lake Kivu. “Good morning boys.” “Morning Ma'am.” Water tankers are already queuing to be filled up before heading out to the camps. Leaving them behind, I take a left walking along the dusty back streets of residential Goma. High walls with steel gates shield the houses and their occupants from curious eyes. Flaunting your wealth in a desperately poor and unstable country is not wise. I check each gate as I pass for the stickers or signs of Aid agencies; in particular I was looking for UK Action Aid Assist, a transport relief organization I had seen operating in Katale and Kibumba. Stopping at an intersection and unsure of which way to go, I see a truck with UK Action Aid Assist stickers pulling out of a gate about fifty meters further on. I run holding on tightly to the HTH bucket, day pack bouncing on my back. The truck changes gears and slowly makes its way down the bumpy dirt road away from me. Running alongside, I reach up for a handle and pull myself up onto the boarding step. “re you going to Katale this morning?” I ask politely through the window. “No, but I'll take you as far as Kahindo if you like”, replies the surprised Englishman. “That will be great. Thanks.” I sling the bucket up into the crook of my elbow, adjust my grip on the cab and open the door. Clambering into the passenger’s seat, I smile. “'Hi, I'm Gaynor.” “Graham”, he replies, extending a hand. “Don't you work for the UN?” “No. I’m just staying there. I'm a volunteer. I go whereever an extra hand is needed. Mostly, I've been working with Goal in Kibumba, but they have more than enough people now, so I'm helping out at Care Australia in Katale for a few days.” “You hitch everyday?” I nod. “A bit risky, isn't it?” “I've been lucky.” I remove my pack. “UNHCR normally has a vehicle going through to Kahindo or Katale. Today Guy is working in Kibumba so I have to find alternative transport. I see your guys’ trucks all over the place – when did you get here?” “A month ago. Haven't had a day off since we arrived.” Nearing Kahindo, it becomes obvious that no-one is working on the site. Except for a few refugees the place is deserted. “I can't leave you here”, says Graham, picking up his mike. “This is Graham from Action Aid, calling Wayne or Phil. Anyone out there?” The airwaves crackle. “Hey, Graham, how are you doing. What are you doing in this neck of the woods?” comes the reply. “Hi Phil. I got a passenger who needs to get to Katale. We are just passing Kahindo.  Do you have anybody in the area?” “I'll meet you half way.” “Roger. Thanks Phil.” Twenty minutes later a white UK Action Aid Assist truck roars towards us. The sound of air brakes fills the air. “You dog!”, crackles Phil's voice over the radio. “Guys, he has got a woman in his cab. A blonde!” I blush. “Graham. Go on. Tell us your secret, mate. How on earth do you do it?” came yet another voice. “What can I tell you guys. When you got it, you got it!” smiles Graham looking at me apologetically. My face turns an even brighter shade of red. “Phil. You had better turn your truck around in a hurry before the poor girl bursts a blood vessel.” “Never fear. I'm right behind you mate.” Thanking Graham for his kindness in going out of his way to organise a relay lift for me, I almost fall out of the truck. Phil draws up alongside and I climb in. A friendly hoot and we are off. After his initial banter on the radio, Phil proved to be surprisingly reticent. It wasn't long before we reached Katale and the Care Australia Orphanage. “Thanks for the lift”, I call, jumping down from the truck. “Anytime”, Phil replies, leaning over and closing the door. The road into the camp is muddy from recent rains. A line of mothers with young children and babies sit patiently near the tents. Besides managing the Orphanage, Care Australia also runs a special feeding and nutrition program for mothers and their babies. I make my way immediately to the diarrhea tent where I find the children eating a breakfast of porridge. Putting the HTH in the stores tent, I help feed the weaker children. “Waah!” a baby cries loudly. I look up and see a two year old crawling towards me. “What's up little one?” I ask, “Are you hungry?” Kneeling beside the baby, I put the cup to her lips. She drinks eagerly. “There you are”, I croon as the baby finishes the watery porridge. I fill the cup and continue feeding the others. “Waah!” cries the baby. “Shush, let the others have some too, you big guts.” “'Waah!” I ignore her. Filling up yet another cup, I see the toddler crawling towards me. “You greedy little pig”, I admonish, but giving in I bend down to give her a little more. The crying stops at once. She has only taken a small sip. “'What are you on about? You aren't even hungry!” I get up to feed the others. “Waah!” “No, no more!” I say firmly, turning my back on her ... she is obviously just playing up. Gently, I place a hand under the shoulder blades of a small child and lift her into sitting position. The girl drinks eagerly from the cup, finishing the last of the porridge. Laying her back down on the plastic, I stand up to get more. The baby is still crying. Seeing me move further away, she begins to crawl after me. “What do you want?” I ask, exasperated and annoyed – there is so much work to do. “Here, have some water.” The baby ignores the cup, but stops crying. “I don't know what your problem is, so I can't help you”, I say standing up to leave. The baby let outs a wail and clings to my leg. Surprised, I look down at her. Slowly, I try to ease my leg away, but her small arms hold on fiercely. She wasn't letting go. Awkwardly, I bend down and encircle my arms around the toddler, ashamed as I slowly come to understand what the child wants. “You miss your mother, don't you?' I whisper quietly. The crying stops. Small hands reach up and push their way through my thick mane of hair. “Oh my hair!” I cry inwardly. The baby’s arms are filthy with diarrhea and now so is my hair. But I don’t pull away; too late now anyway. Looking up, I see the other children staring at me, smiling shyly. I smile back and open my arms. Those who are strong enough shuffle closer. They all want a hug, or even just to be close. It has been so long since anyone has held them in their arms, their mothers gone forever, hacked to death in front of them as they ran terrified from their villages, or escaping only to die slowly of cholera and dehydration in the overcrowded refugee camps. Powerless to do anything, one by one these children have watched their families die. They are alone and their futures uncertain. “What is to become of you?” I murmur quietly. The children smile at me, not understanding but content to be held in the arms of someone, anyone, for just a few moments. “Gaynor, we have new arrivals – dehydration cases. Will you take care of ORS while they wait for the doctors?” asks an Australian nurse, carrying two babies in her arms. “Sure.”  I disentangle myself from the children. “Here, let me take one. How many are there?” “Ten”' says the nurse laying the first baby down on the plastic. I fill a bucket with water and rehydration salts while the new arrivals are brought in. Crouching down in the middle of the group, I hand out cups of water to the older children. Two are about twelve years old. They look like skeletons. The girl's lips part in a grotesque grin as I hand her a cup where she sits. With help, she manages to take a sip, but then points to the boy lying on his back beside her. He is all skin and bone, his lower body lying in a pool of watery green diarrhea. I kneel beside him. His big wide eyes, wild and bulging, scream silently into mine. The bones of his skull protrude in sharp relief beneath thinly stretched skin – a living mask. I lift his head and try to give him water. He cries out, babbling in a language I do not understand. “Come, you must drink”, she pleads with him. Some of the Rwandans speak French, but I am quite useless when it comes to languages and rely heavily on body language and miming. “Eau. Amanzi.” I try in French and then in Kenyangwanda, the Rwandan language. It is similar to Swahili and Zulu, the latter being the tribal language of my home town Durban, in KwaZulu Natal. The boy moves his head away and tries to lift his arms with excruciating effort. He gives up. He does not have the strength. An interpreter, well dressed and wearing dark glasses, kneels beside me. The boy requests a cloth to cover...” he pauses for a moment, a little embarrassed, “to cover his private parts.” I stare at the twelve year old boy. All around me, naked children are sick and dying. This young boy, so close to death himself, is concerned about his dignity. ''They deserve some dignity...." Mick’s words come to me unbidden... “I will see what I can do ... but first, please tell him he must drink the water.” The interpreter translates for the boy. Moaning, the child allows me to feed him water. Bravely he swallows only to retch uncontrollably. Bloody saliva drools from his mouth. Holding the child in my arms, I wait for the racking motions to subside. What have I done? “Please call the doctor”, I ask the interpreter. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you”, I whisper into the boy’s ear. A doctor kneels beside me. “He can't drink”, I explain. I forced him to drink and he coughed up blood. “We will have to put him on IV. Do you know how to do it?” he asks. “No, I'm sorry”, I reply feeling absolutely useless. Unpacking a drip from a cardboard box, the doctor attempts to insert a needle into the boy’s arm. Twice he tries to find the vein, but the arm is only skin and bone. The veins have collapsed. I grimace, hating needles. Giving up on the third attempt, the doctor says, “We will have to insert it into the neck. This is bush medicine, but we don't have a choice.” I narrow my eyes as the needle is pushed into the neck. “Damn”, says the doctor. He tries again. Blood runs over his fingers. Holding the boys arms, I force myself to watch ... so much blood! I bite my lip. This can't be right. What if he hit an artery? “There, that will do”, says the doctor finally. “Will he be all right?” “I don't know.” He leaves. The boy moans and I watch as he lifts his hand feebly and places it by his hips. The cloth! “Please make sure these other children get water”, I ask the interpreter, “I will only be gone a few minutes.” Finding a clean cloth, I take a bowl of water and a rag and gently clean away the diarrhea. Once reasonably clean, I tie the clean cloth around his waist like a nappy. Those big, wild eyes stare at me all the time. He mumbles as I tie the final knot. “He is saying ‘thank you’, beams the interpreter. I give the boy a small smile in return. There is nothing more I can do or say. A bony brown hand touches mine. It is the girl's. Her face is calm, serenely accepting. His sister? I give her hand a gentle squeeze and join the interpreter administering ORS. This is NOT what being a child is supposed to be about.

Last Updated ( Saturday, 13 October 2007 )

 

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