My little boy.

He makes me laugh probably more than any of my other students.  We’re talking belly laugh.  And almost every day he sneaks up to me, tugs on my shoulder so I bend down to his level and proceeds to tell me a VERY long story, entirely in Bemba.  He looks at me with expectant eyes, waiting for me to respond, only to have me (yet again) shrug my shoulders and say, “Shum fwile, buddy!  Shum fwile!”  (aka: I don’t understand!)  And even though he KNOWS he’s supposed to be outside during break time, he is always in my classroom looking for ways to stick close to me.  “Teacher, I rub the board?  Teacher, I throw the pencil shavings?  Teacher, I clean the cups?”  Some days he can be my little angel; other days he comes to school ready to fight.  He must have a whole colony of ants in his pants and he doesn’t know the meaning of “raise your hand!”  Some days he makes me want to pull out my hair.  But then he smiles or giggles or quietly sits down beside me as I work on grading, and he’s my little boy again.

And today I found out there’s a very good chance he’s HIV-positive.

I knew the statistics when I moved here.  I know there’s a very good chance that more of my students are also positive.  Charity and I have even talked about students we are concerned about, based on their chronic illnesses.  But actually having it confirmed?  Knowing that this little boy who sits in my classroom every day is facing a life of stigma and hardship?  That changes things. 

AIDS is heartbreaking enough when it’s adults who have to deal with the terrible consequences of their choices; but kids?  It’s almost unbearable.  These children are born into this world with no choice.  Their fates are handed down to them because of someone else’s mistakes.  People who were supposed to take care of them messed up, and most of the time they aren’t even alive to make it up to their precious children.  As is the case with my little boy.  He’s a double orphan.  Both of his parents are gone, most likely due to the virus.  Thank God he has a grandmother who loved him enough to get him tested.  She loved him enough to ignore the stigmas and the prejudice and the fear that this virus has brought to the people of Zambia.  The stigmas that make people ignore the signs and deny the possibilities.   She was one of the few who chose to get her child tested.  And now she knows.  

But he doesn’t.  He doesn’t even understand.  He doesn’t understand why he has to go to the clinic every month to get weighed and poked and prodded.  He doesn’t understand why he has to take medicine every day.  And when Charity asked him if his little sister also takes this medicine, he simply said, “Nope.  She’s not big enough to swallow pills.”  In his little boy brain, the only reason he takes this life-sustaining drug is because he’s big and his sister is not.  Because how on earth could you explain something like this to a 6 year old boy?  How on earth can you explain the gravity of it while still offering him hope?  I pray that my loving God will give his grandmother enduring strength the day she finally has to tell him the truth.

Today my heart is heavy and I’m reminded again why I am here.  It’s so easy sometimes to believe the picture that my Zambian friends put forth.  They are forever smiling and full of life; but inside is often a world of hurt far beyond my comprehension.  It’s easy to read the statistics.  It’s easy to convince yourself that you know the repercussions.  But even if my little boy IS the only one in my class who is HIV-positive, I know that every other child in the room has been affected by AIDS in some way.  I feel it every time I have to ask my students whom exactly they stay with.  Are they one of the lucky ones who still have a mom or dad at home, or do they stay with an aunt, uncle, grandma, grandpa, sister or brother?  I feel it when I look in the Zambian science books and children are being taught to stay away from sharp objects, not just because they are sharp, but also because they could pass on life-ending diseases.  And sometimes the weight of it is too much to bear.  It’s hard to look into the eyes of little boys and girls who live in this world of pain and teach them how to subtract 29 from 45.  It’s days like these that I wish God would miraculously make me fluent in Bemba so I could simply hold my students and help them understand just how much I love them. 

But today, all I have is subtraction.  And sight words.  And English vocabulary.  And the story of Moses.  And every day I have to believe that even if I can’t erase all the heartache in my students’ lives, I can help them build a better future.  I can help them learn English and I can help them read and I can teach them about the Bible and maybe, just maybe, these tools will help them break the cycle.  And maybe if they can subtract, they will be able to run a small business from their homes and help support their families.  And maybe if they can read, they will truly become educated about this virus that seeks to destroy their country.  And maybe if they can speak English fluently, they will be given the opportunity to attend college where they will study to be doctors who help fights AIDS.  And maybe if they hide the story of Moses away in their hearts, they will never forget that God hears our cries and He will send a deliverer some day.

And THIS is why I’m here.