Maria and her son Peter-outside their home

Maria’s story continues:----------------------------------------- July 8, 2007

“One day when I had a bit of strength”. Maria returns to her story, “I tied my husbands clothes to make a small bundle which I passed over my head so that it dangled down my chest. I got a stick for support and slowly, resting several times on the way, tottered to the village to try and sell the clothes. They were part of the few valuables I had packed when we fled. I had carefully kept his best shirts, ties and suits for all this time. But let me tell you it was not easy keeping anything in the camps. Thefts were rampant, if you took your eyes off your belongings for just a second, something disappeared. One of my sons always stood guard whenever I moved off.

“Anyway, I went to town. But when I returned, however, I found the children alone crying. Their relatives had vanished. The children had looked and called for them everywhere in the camps until people told them not to bother because their relatives had moved on, to escape responsibility, I guess. That sort of thing happened fairly often, sometimes husbands abandoned wives and children.”

“Fortunately, I had managed to sell the clothes. That money helped to keep us alive.

You see after that trip to town, perhaps because of my exertion of walking some distance, I became very ill. The children and some good people in the camp did their best to nurse me. The children became mature overnight. They are wonderful children!”

Maria pauses in her storytelling and reaches into her small bundle. She pulls out a polythene bag and opens it. She gets out an exercise book, and as she opens it, a bunch of photographs pour into her lap. She picks them up and looks at them one at a time. She selects three and selects them more closely. As she does this, her face light up. There is a flicker of the beauty that was masked by the premature ageing . She hands me one “That is my oldest son Joseph” She hands me another. “That one on the left is my second boy, . the one next to him is Nsaba, my third son. And this is me carrying my daughter Rose, on my lap. She was about two years old then.”

They are lovely children. How old are they?” I ask.“Joseph, the oldest is sixteen, he is in class six. He is the spitting image of his father. The one who came after him is fourteen and in class five. Their youngest brother is twelve and in class four. The war in Rwanda interfered with their schooling. When we arrived here it took time to resume school. They lost about three years altogether. As soon as I got some strength and knew my way around, I got them back into school. They had problems adjusting to a different school system, different language and new people. The girl who is only seven is in class two. I gave birth to her the night I arrived in Kisoro.

“The situation was really bad in the camps. But God had not totally abandoned us .A distant relative of my mother heard of my state. His home was not far from the camp. He took us to his house where we rested for several days. He and his wife were very good to us and later told us how to get to Kisoro from Ruchuro. The money from the sale of the clothes came in very handy for the journey to Kisoro.

“You know, God is great, “ Maria announces dramatically and then pauses for quite some time as if to ponder on the greatness of God. She appears sad and shakes her head several times. “If we had remained in Gatare camp for just one more week, I would have delivered there and certainly would have died. My delivery at St. Francis Hospital, Mutolere was not easy, I was in labor for over six hours. I was weak and the baby was big. The doctors had decided to operate when by some miracle, I delivered. I bled a lot after the delivery and received several bottles of blood.

“You see, the taxi that brought us to Kisoro was the same one that took me to the hospital. I was so sick that the taxi driver did not have the heart to throw me out at the taxi park along with my little boys. All through the journey from Ruchuro, they huddled close to me, afraid that I might die. I prayed fervently through the journey that if I were to die, I should die after reaching Kisoro. I dreaded dying on the way and my children being abandoned in a totally foreign country. At least in Kisoro, they would eventually be traced to my people. I had provided my oldest son with some facts. He knew my brothers name, the name of the village of my birth and the name of my late father.

“I delivered that same night. I remember the date well; it was the 16^th of Sept.1994

Later, some of the patients recognized me and a message was sent to my brother.

He was very happy to see me alive, as he had feared I might have been killed in the war in Rwanda. He took the boys with him. Afterwards he regularly checked on me and generally took care of me

“I was so sick, I remained in the hospital over a month. Somehow my daughter was born strong and healthy. She is still a very healthy and happy girl,in spite of the fact that she did not breast feed. She was not born with* ”Slim”. She has been tested several times and each time she has been found negative.” Maria gives the beaming smile of a proud mother.

“As for me, I was informed soon after delivery that I had* “Slim”. I first became suspicious when I was told my daughter could not be breastfeed, they said she was too weak. They would only let me hold her a short time before taking her back. A nurse would stand by to make sure I did not feed my baby. I could see the baby was normal so I constantly begged to be allowed to feed her.”

“One morning, one of the nurses sat with me and we talked about many things. She was very friendly and ask me many questions. Then she explained why the doctors discouraged breast milk for my baby. I was sick; I had* “Slim”, she told me and my milk could expose the baby to the disease. “I was ready to do anything to save my daughters life.”

“The nurse told me many things about the disease and what to do to keep strong. She was very kind and gentle, she did not seem to blame me or think I was dirty.”

* Slim = AIDS