Yesterday I came across this sobering article, from March 2010, on the declining average life span in Lesotho. Though I could have written this story with the statistics drilled into my head during Peace Corps training, these words left me in a fit of tears. The article presents three basic facts: Lesotho has the third-highest prevalence of HIV, fourth-highest prevalence of tuberculosis (TB), and ranks fifth among countries with the shortest life expectancy. Lesotho, an 'off the map' enclave of South Africa, was my home for 10 months--I lived these statistics.
My coworkers missed class to seek treatment at the clinic, an often grueling multi-hour walk from their home. My students missed school because their bodies were too weak to make the two-hour one-way trek to school. I tragically lost seven students (of my 199) in one three-month winter break. My middle-host-sister missed meals because the antibiotics--that made no progress--to fight her multi-drug resistant TB diminished her appetite. Her closest friend lost the battle to the deadly combination of HIV and TB. Instead of accepting death as a part of life, I grew numb to the idea. I struggled to conceptualize the epidemic, to find my place in the matter.
Then I walked away.
These words are convicting, challenging and yet somehow freeing to be reminded. My heart for service. My passion for global health. My love for Lesotho. These are not concepts I just want to lead a life talking about. I am compelled to do something. But what?
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