Bittersweet

August 22, 2007

Bittersweet seems to be the perfect word for almost everything I am and have experienced in my time so far surrounding Honduras and all that I have done to prepare and process being here. Though such beauty exists here, the stark poverty cannot be called beautiful. It might be easy to glorify the plight of the poor by saying that they have happiness that we will never find and yes, they might. But, struggling to feed one’s own children or being unable to send them to school is not beautiful. It is a bittersweet combination of genuine happiness, faith, and value for the most precious parts of life with hunger, struggle, and discomfort.

My day took me to “El Rancho,” an orphanage officially titled Nuestros Pequenos Hermanos that is home to 600 children who have either lost parents or been given to this home. I have never before been to an orphanage and the only word I could find to describe it is bittersweet. The property stretches for acre upon acre of woods and fields and it seems the perfect place for a child to run free and explore. School buildings, girls’ dormitories, boys’ dormitories, and vocational buildings scatter the property. The children are housed by age and in the ‘Hijas de Maria,’ the ten year old girls sleep in triple decker bunk beds in one room. I struggle in my description to accurately depict how I feel without looking through the American viewpoint that has come to shape my reactions. I think of how much love and guidance my own parents have given me and look to these many children who will never know that. They will never have a special nickname with their dad or be tucked into bed by their mum. They will never go school supply shopping with mum and come home to a meal cooked or bought by dad. Instead, they awake to a room of other children with the same schedule of school, work, dinner, and bed.

But, this life in the orphanage, in the viewpoints of the children, is incredible compared to the lives they previously lived. They appreciate knowing that they are waking to eat three meals, have their own bed, and be surrounded by friends. It would be unfair of me to say that this place is not filled with joy. In our visit to the baby’s room (really the toddlers’ room), we spent mere minutes before little hands grabbed ours and took us off to explore. Genesis, a beautiful little light haired girl, took my hand and mischievously told me that all the beds were hers. Our playful banter beckoned the presence of three little chicos and laughter and giggles filled the room as we played. Yes, bittersweet.

And then it was off to la Casa Passionista, a home for those suffering from AIDS. About fifteen internos call la Casa home. Located on the ranch, la Casa is a beautiful building with rooms surrounding a courtyard. Everybody, but the director, Puri, suffers from HIV/AIDS. Have I lived a sheltered life? Yes, yes I have. I have never before met a person suffering from AIDS. Somehow in my mind I thought they would be different. Not that they would wear a sign telling me that they were positive, but that I would be able to tell. But, no. The internos (residents of the Casa) are quiet and somewhat timid people, but they laugh with joy and sit attentively listening to the every word of Puri. The Casa has been open since 1990, but it has changed much over the years. With advances in medicine, most of the patients in the Casa can now expect to live relatively normal lives. However, when it first opened, life was a lot different. Death and sadness were common place and la Casa was not a happy place to be. I do not know enough about AIDS to be able to say what will happen to the internos or how this disease will affect their lives. But, I see these people and my heart opens to them immediately. I want to say it is just one or two, but all of the internos seem to tug at me in different manners. I cannot help but feel sorry for them. I know they do not want my pity and that is not what I want to give them. I want to open my arms to them and welcome them into my life. I want to share my life with them. Corrino, an older interno, smiles gently and when asked how he is doing responds with a ‘thanks be to God’ for being alive. When the old volunteers were leaving, he shed tears as he hugged them goodbye. Yes, bittersweet.