Se pa kay pam

Se pa kay pam. "This is not my home" - that's the literal translation of what Mama Evena said to me this morning as she looked over at the other mother in the room who was sitting with a 7-month old on her lap. I think she meant that she no longer felt like she belonged in our little nutrition project space - among the mothers with cooing babies. Two months ago, her 9-month old daughter Evena died suddenly of what we suspect was meningitis. It was the weekend and Mama Evena and her husband could not find the 50 cents or so it would cost to bring their feverish child to a hospital by moto taxi. Instead they brought her to the church where in the midst of prayers she started convulsing. By the time they actually reached the hospital, it was too late. Evena died within hours.

I had meant it two months ago when I told Mama Evena that she was still welcome to come by any time - to talk, to cry, to whatever she needed. Yet this earlier morning, at the start of what already promised to be a stressful day, I felt my stomach drop when I saw her step into the room. I did not want to be reminded of her grief - not when there was so much work to be done. Not when there was another grieving mother due to arrive within an hour or two. You see yesterday we found out that Mama Evena had been joined by Mama Annis - mother of a 7-month old girl who died on December 27th from what we think are diarrhea-related complications.

Working in the country with the highest infant mortality rate in the Western hemisphere I should be more prepared for these deaths. I am not. No one on our team is.

It's interesting to watch how each of us responds. Miss M expresses her frustration that any child could die of diarrhea - something that takes so few resources to combat. She spent most of the day today declaring that the deaths must stop - that we are going to push the mothers harder to make sure they now how to care for their children. In contrast, Miss G's eyes welled up with tears and she let her head fall into her hands. Two years ago, Miss G lost her own 18-month-old son. Most days she displays visible signs of anxiety and grief. Sometimes I wonder if it's healthy to have her continue to work among so many vulnerable children - she has spent more than one sleepless night thinking about the mothers and children in our project. I, in turn, felt about the same as I do most of the time lately - a little numb and a lot overwhelmed. I have come to measure unexpected events by the amount of additional work they create. The death of a child rightly requires a quick investigation and detailed reporting to the university ethics board. I am a bit scared that two deaths in two months will invite criticism of our program. I wish I just felt more compassion.

Evena was a very special child. She was her mother's only daughter. Her brothers are much older - 13 and 16 years old. I get the impression that Evena was an unexpected but very welcome gift for her mother - a gift she was not ready to give back to Bondye. If Evena was with her today, I imagine that our little space would have still felt like home.