There are some things you witness in life that are so devastating that it puts everything in perspective. When I see kids on the streets begging for money; standing in the doorways of dilapidated shacks with extended stomachs from malnutrition; running barefoot with a stick and a wheel because they’ve never owned a toy, I feel sad. But what I felt today was deeper than sadness; it was as if I’d opened a portal into the collective pain we create as humans.
I visited the female ward of Mokolo’s prison, which I suspect was initially designed for solitary confinement. It was a grimy cement hallway lined with five or six rooms, filled with the smell of feces from the latrine at the end of the passage, and with just enough light to see. There were a handful of women, dressed in shoddy traditional clothing, nonchalantly cleaning pots and bowls. Their behavior alone would not have been striking but for the grim surroundings. Moreover, what made the scene truly appalling was that within these ghastly confines, there was an infant tightly wrapped in fabric to her mother’s back, and a few other small children, with wide innocent eyes staring up at me. Knowing that they were not only malnourished, but imprisoned, I choked back tears. How could it be that these little children, in their purity and blamelessness, are raised in this man-made hell? Even those starving on the streets have the freedom to extend their hand to strangers, to run, and to play. But because there is no one who will care for them on the outside, they are forced to pay for the transgressions of their mothers, likely victims themselves.
There is no recovering from the sight of such human debasement. The faces of these mothers and children will forever be imprinted in my mind and I can only hope that my grief for them is transmuted into resolve to return each week and do whatever I can to help.
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