April 25th, 2016: Today, as I worked with my pupils reading stories about malaria and encouraging everyone to take a pledge to teach one person what they learned today, I saw a girl sitting in the back of the classroom smiling. One of my favorite pupils from last year, Hayati, smiled throughout our lesson then approached me afterwards to tell me she already had taught her family about this (because she had the lesson with me last year). She then thanked me for the class and for helping her friends and classmates around the community by teaching them about malaria prevention and treatment. And finally, she asked me if I have still been telling people about her sister, in reference to this story & moment she let me share this time last year. Unexpectedly, she hugged me around my right arm/hip, and said, "That is good. My sister is now helping other children." Yes, Hayati. Yes she is, and so are you for allowing me to share this with others. So here it is, a sorry titled, "Malaria, Mourning, and the Moments We Remember…" This is the first time I have ever seen her like this, now curled up in a small space between my arm and chest as I hold her and console her. I watch as each tear rolls down her cheek, suspends briefly on her chin, then drops onto my light blue skirt. A small pool of tears has formed, the only evidence of her emotions. No sniffles, no wailing cries, no hyperventilating. I lean my back against the cement wall to make her more comfortable. Our silent embrace is surrounded by overflowing classrooms of shouting children in the distance. We must have sat there for thirty minutes. I have never seen her without a glowing and eager smile staring up at me. Over the past three months we have developed a bond that I have never experienced before in life and cannot articulate adequately. A teacher-student, mother-daughter, sister-like love that I cherish. She is the pupil who yells at anyone who says, “Mundu,” and corrects them with my name, “Ayikoru.” She is the pupil who I glance at in class, front- and-center, for encouragement, always taking notes and soaking up every word, always smiling. She is the pupil I look to (and secretly make a funny facial expression to) in the crowd of pupils during our long assemblies, front-and-center, knowing that she will immediately return eye contact and giggle. She is the pupil who runs up behind me and slides her hand into mine after waiting under the mango tree after school just to catch me before my run and to walk alongside me. She is the pupil who I meet outside the gate every day, same time, same place, to help across the busy street. She is the pupil who asked if she could help teach the other classes the malaria song and I now understand why. Sheʼs the pupil who also asked if she could write back to my 11-year old friend “Isabella” who had written my class a letter. She is the pupil who spent four hours writing this letter to her new pen pal in America, scribbling and re- scribbling her English words as if they were a pieces of artwork. Her joyful and always cheerful public facade masks the hardships she has endured already at such a young age. In the letter she introduces me to my first real glimpse into her past. “I have 2 sister. My other sister is die,” she wrote. As I hold her letter in my hand, I immediately desire to know more about my pupil, little sister, and friend I have grown so emotionally close to. ——- Today we sat on the decaying cement stairs in the shade behind our classroom. After we read her letter together two days ago, I told her I wanted to meet with her again to teach her a song as a “thank you” for writing such a nice note. She has reminded me three times about this song, so today we held hands and walked to the stairs together. I sit on the dusty cement next to her without thinking twice, which is unlike any teacher in their “smart” clothes (most would yell at the pupil to go fetch a chair for them). We laugh along as I teach her “Patty Cake” and I butcher the words entirely. She doesnʼt notice or care. We gradually stop singing as we proceed to talk about our homes, our families, and our lives. I have the most insightful conversations with people half my age in this country. Hayati is another example. She tells me that she stays with her aunt and uncle because her father and brothers stay in town. She states that she saw them last November as she struggles to remember her brotherʼs full name. Eventually, I ask her about her letter and her sisters. I ask about the sister she wrote about in her letter, the sister who has since left us. As these words leave my mouth, I brace myself. “Malaria.” She says the word and each syllable stings my core. This answer is one of the most common in Uganda and in Africa. I have learned that few people go beyond this one-word explanation; it is frequent and it is expected. I, however, want to know more. I ask her if she wants to tell me anything else about her sister. I recognize that nobody has probably asked her about her sister, the death, or how she is coping with it. She pauses for a few minutes and we stare into the horizon as each deliberate breeze graces us. “What was your sisterʼs name?” My gentle smile and fragile question begins our conversation again. “Commeseke Maria.” She states twice as I try to write it down. She corrects my spelling and I am impressed with her English skills once more. “What a beautiful name: Maria. Was she as beautiful as you, Hayati?” Smiling, I wrap my arm around Hayatiʼs hunched shoulders and give a tight squeeze to comfort her. She grins and looks up at me as if to say “yes” in the humblest of ways. “How old were you when she left?” I ask. “Two-Zero-One-Three,” she responds slowly as she draws the numbers in the air simultaneously. “2013? Maria died of malaria in 2013?” I ask to clarify because I am unsure of how much of my English she is “picking” (a Ugandish term for “understanding”). “Yes, two-thousand-thirteen,” she echos. “I was six. I mean, I was nine. She was six.” At this time I shadow Hayati and look down, but I now stare at my pen and paper unable to write down the age Maria died, unable to cope with this harsh reality. Six years old. As we exchange silence I think about the people I interact with every day, how many of them have most likely lost a family member to malaria. How many other mothers and fathers have lost their children? How many other children have lost their parents and their friends? Hayati and I continue our conversation slowly and with delicate steps. Hayati explains that they had all shared a bed and even the same mosquito net, a preemptive attempt to save their lives. She tells me that she was with Maria when she died at home. Much like the artwork of her English letters, she paints a terrible picture in my head as she continues. “She died with blood.” She mutters and looks into her lap. The heavy-throat and face-tingling feeling comes over me. I swallow a few times instinctively as to not cry. I glance over and see this innocent and broken-hearten child. I see her glossy, bright eyes beginning to well-up with tears. Before I can finish my next sentence, she falls into me the same way I fell into my mother that Friday morning we learned of my fatherʼs death. A place a warmth, protection, and love. “Were you scared?” She holds onto me tighter and I feel her head nod as it is nestled against me. As we sit together, I think about the unfairness of death. Not only does it take our loved ones, but it takes pieces of our hearts and holds them hostage forever. “You know Hayati, my dad also died. In 2009. I was very sad. I was scared. I was angry.Itʼs okay to cry sometimes. Even me, I cried. Some days I still cry. But I know that he is with me and he is protecting me. He keeps me safe when I am here with you in Uganda. Maria is keeping you safe, too.” I feel an incredible amount of relief as I speak these words. Itʼs as if this moment was planned; it is exactly what I needed to remind myself of at this time. Although she doesnʼt move I know she is listening. I continue by telling her that her sister and my dad are together somewhere right now watching us and smiling. She raises up and looks at me, grinning. “Really?” she asks lightly. “I know it,” I say as she lays her head back onto me and repositions herself. I close my eyes and breathe in-sync with Hayati once again. I wonder if she feels my tears dropping onto her freshly-shaven head after they roll down my cheek and suspend from my chin briefly. I recognize I am her teacher and in Uganda this exchange of compassion could be deemed unprofessional, but these are those tears we shed in life that cannot be contained. The genuine, unforced tears that well in your eyes and stream down your face one at a time. They stem straight from your heart and all the efforts in the world cannot stop them. You will never meet a teacher and you will never meet a Peace Corps Volunteer who says they do it for the money. We do it because we love it. Our daily interactions, the growth we see, and the relationships we form are why we continue our work. Malariaʼs numb fist has crushed down onto this continent and continues to apply brutal force upon these innocent people. As I work on educating my community about malaria prevention and to improve the literacy of my pupils, stories like Hayatiʼs and our time together keep me motivated every day. Beyond the money and beyond the acknowledgments, the small moments in life are what keep us going.
