Living in Botswana for three years exposed me to the reality of the HIV/AIDS epidemic. I remember the first week I was living in Old Naledi, a poor subdivision of Gaborone, our neighbor passed away. The young lady left behind three children, the youngest a boy nicknamed Bibo was not yet two years old. This epidemic raises many challenging questions as it touches every aspect of life in Southern Africa. At times, it is clear that people are overcome with hopelessness and anger.
In the process of researching for the paper I am writing on this subject I have spent more time than usual reflecting on my time in Botswana. This has been making me miss my many good friends that I left; I miss Bibo and the other young boys whose lives are being shaped by this dire reality. It makes me wonder at how my friends consistently remained hopeful in a seemingly hopeless situation.
One of the more tragic developments in Botswana has been the increase of what are called “passion killings”; men killing their girlfriends and often themselves also leaving families and friends mourning and asking "why". Even in the midst of this horrible rent in the fabric of life in Botswana, there are glimmers of hope in a community that is all too familiar with mourning. Jonathan Larson wrote a reflection on one such funeral:
Of Crushing Sorrow and Traces of Wistful, Sweet Relief
A circle of mostly older Batswana women are sitting together in the inner room of a village house. They are swathed in blankets and heavy shawls, though it is a sweltering summer day. A few recline in quiet corners already exhausted by hours of keeping vigil. But they seem perfectly comfortable in that distinctive local posture with legs full extended in front of them on the concrete floor, the only concession being a patchwork of rough, white sugar sacks carpeting the room. They are traditional mourners, family and friends, drawn to this home by the bitter news of what has become an altogether too common event in this part of Africa: word of a passion killing. The strain of grief is written there by a cruel hand on these faces, even as they lean toward one another with whispers of consolation.
Outside, in the rocky yard, under the thorn trees, men are already hoisting into place the tarpaulins that will shelter the gathering crowd. The smoke of cooking fires carries aloft the signal that the rituals of prayers and hymns, the recitation of sacred writings and of shared food will mark another wrenching loss.
It seems a young man, prone to waves of white hot anger, one day made a bloody end of his girlfriend of long standing, for what possible reason no one seems able to say, though some stutter about that silent nemesis, HIV. He locked the room where she stayed, stumbled into a nearby bar in the vain hope that it might yet all be erased. But having woken to the bitter truth of his life, he turned himself in to disbelieving police, who nevertheless found it exactly as he described.
While that much will be told in the headlines, there is heartache and devastation now stretching in every direction as far as the eye can see. The parents of the poor girl, flattened at the news of their daughter's violent end have risen up in rage to say to the young man's family, "You killed her! Now you bury her!" and have slammed the door on all tears of remorse or entreaty. A sister to the dead girl appears brusquely in the yard and begins to scream insults at the boy's elderly mother. She rushes forward, helpless with rage, raining blows down on the bewildered mother who is rescued by bystanders.
What was once a quiet village neighborhood of friendship and shared esteem is aflame with hatred, sodden with grief and suspicion.
In the verandah of this house of misfortune sits a quiet young girl in a brilliant turquoise frock. Her hair is perfectly braided. She has been attentively bathed and groomed. It is the young daughter of the dead girl and the violent boy now in prison. And what will become of this misbegotten but unbearably beautiful and innocent African child? An aunt frets that she will be branded by playmates as the offspring of violent folly. In a single day she lost her mother at the hands of her father, and he now, is forever prisoner to his disgrace. Has any one suffered in this atrocity more than this lovely child?
Having spent a few moments with the mourners in quiet prayer, you might take your leave, wishing each some small measure of relief and peace. As you go, you might notice that under the eaves of this joy-forsaken house, another young mother is nursing a small, contented infant in arms. And as you pass out through the gate you meet with a young man who is carrying an armful of sugarcane to the mourners.
Even in a season scorched with inconsolable sorrow, the signs of human love and sweet relief play at the edges of pathos.
Jonathan Larson
Gaborone, Botswana
10 March, 2008
