Desiree's Diary

June 26th, 2008

This is one of an occasional series of columns from Desiree,
who is serving an orphanage in the Republic of Uzbekistan, (formerly part of the USSR).
 

06-10-08
Nothing is as it appears to be in the land of Uz.

It is not unusual to see children throwing rocks at trees, hoping to knock down some unreachable fruit. They’ll throw whatever is nearby; a rock, a big stick, a brick. It doesn’t matter that the tree is not their own, or that it is adjacent to glass windows. Their focus is on the fruit and despite the aftermath of damage, the children are extraordinarily elated when that piece of fruit, no matter how small or green, finally falls to the ground.

In my attempt to gain wisdom or at least understanding, I asked a respected man of the community and his answer was effortless. “If you grew up here, you would behave the same way.”

The kids are hungry and the fruit is free. So, if I have to sweep the decapitated leaves, mutilated branches and the errant pieces of make-shift mortar they leave behind, it’s really no big deal in the land of Uz . The children are happy and apparently healthy enough to throw decent sized rocks. This is a good thing.

At the Q (orphanage), another child is left clinging to his semblance of life. I spent time with him today. Because of the heat, no one else was in the room. All the other children had already been carried outside to sit under the shade of the fruit trees. A young caretaker left the room after my arrival. I think she needed some fresh air herself and took my presence as a relief of duty. I knelt on the floor next to his bed and caressed his cheeks, rubbed his forehead and arms. As he made eye contact with me, I told him that he was loved. His eyebrows raised and he gasped. I processed that as understanding.
I lifted the rag that was covering his chest and though nothing is as it appears to be, death makes its own rules. His chest concave, his joints protruding and still he kept eye contact with me, his face appeared shallow. His breathing was the sound of the last bit of milkshake coming through a straw, only without the intensity of desire. I could do nothing for him. I prayed. I spoke words of love and then I was called away by the staff.

Hours later, I phrased my question trying not to offend. For years, I never had the courage to ask, but now, I wanted to know what had been done with the child’s body from the other day. The worker said that it was cleaned and wrapped in white cloth by the staff and taken to a cemetery within walking distance. The cleaning and wrapping are done typically by family whenever anyone dies here but in this case, the staff managed it. I am guessing that it isn’t in their job description. I was told that the younger staff are trained by the older ones on how to administer the duty and that more often than not the younger ones are not capable of doing it – purely for emotional reasons. But it was quickly added, that “they get used to it.”

I hope I never get used to it.

Desiree'

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