Arturo (Bong) Ang kindly showed us around. Standing in the office where the clients come for counseling and education, Bong explained the reason his program exists and the great service it does for Cambodia.
As you can imagine, someone who has gone through the above experience has troubles that go far beyond the disease itself. Seedlings of Hope treats not just the physical disease, but the mental trauma and hopelessness that so often accompany HIV infection. As the patients recover from their illness, Seedlings of Hope counsels them, trains them and gives them guidance and confidence. While HIV was once a death sentence, now people with HIV may lead normal lives including marriage and parenthood. Seedlings of Hope teaches infected people how to lessen the risk of transmission to their partner and to their children. The program gives once helpless people the knowledge and confidence to help themselves.
The greatest tribute to the program's success is the fact that it is temporary. People in the program graduate and go on to lead healthy and productive lives. This is truly teaching people to fish.
Bong offered to take us down the road to see the hospice. The unfortunate reality of living with HIV is a high risk of infection, even with medication. In a pattern I was getting used to, I noticed the road turned from new cement into dirt.
Most of the hospice patients were watching a TV show in the front room. They smiled and seemed to be glad of our visit. I could tell from their skinny arms and faces that they were in varying stages of illness. Bong asked if we wanted to see some of the bedridden patients. In my limited experience I haven't spent much time in hospitals, so I was a little afraid. I was afraid too of what the patients would think of me in their room. I kept the camera around my neck, but didn't use it.
Two patients sat in this room. One was man who was clearly handsome at one time. Now he was frail and wearing only a diaper. He didn't smile while Bong caressed him gently and asked him questions. Bong explained that this man had been taking medication, but it seemed the virus adapted and they didn't change to a new medication in time. I didn't know what to say to a man who was so exposed, and in so much misery. I didn't say anything because I couldn't speak his language. How could I break through a barrier as large as language when experience and pain distanced us even more? What were we saying to each other with our eyes? During the ten minutes we spent in that room, the fellow never smiled. Occasionally he clapped mosquitos with a sudden smacking sound.
The other patient looked at us, but did not see. His infection had blinded him. His wife sat on a chair by the bed. Both looked sweet and heart-breakingly young. Bong help the man's hand and talked to him kindly. I don't know all that they said as they talked, but the patient began to cry. Bong said, "He's crying because he can't see anymore. He wonders what use he will be if he can't see." Worry and understanding showed on the wife's face. The patients and the wife all trusted Bong. They confided in him. Seeing them in pain wasn't easy. Seeing they were loved was my only solace.
On the ride home, I wondered aloud to my boyfriend if they felt uncomfortable with us there. "If they did not want us there they would have said so," he said, "I think people want others to witness their pain. They want their story to be told." I thought of the mothers I counsel every week here in Oakland. They share the hardest details of their life with me. He's right. We all want to someone witness our hardship.
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