a burn

MONDAY December 14, 2008

Today started like any other: my hand searching the darkness to silence the incessant beeping of my watch alarm, a sleepy shuffle to the bathroom, a bracingly cold shower that brought me whipping into consciousness, and an easy breakfast of fruit and coffee. After our Creole lesson, we proceeded to CONASPEH.

Shortly after arriving and just having laid down my bags, one of the kindergarten teachers from the school appeared in my doorway. She held up her arm to show me her injury, asking for assistance. “Burn.” She said simply. Clearly it was a burn. But not from an innocent graze on a curling iron, or a grease splash from frying bacon. This was no accident.

I lead the woman into the clinic, trying to formulate questions as I surveyed the weeping flesh that wrapped her entire forearm leaving it denuded, pink and blistered. I strove to keep my voice quiet and calm as I asked, “who did this?” “My husband. With an iron.” No elaborate story. No tears. Simple facts stated. “Bad husband,” I offered. She smiled. I fumed.

While I photographed the wound (hoping she would be convinced to go to the police), gently cleaned it, and dressed it, Madame Fano came in. She shook here head. “This is grave.” She helped me gently remind our patient that this was not ok. That this kind of treatment was unacceptable, that she and her 3 month-old baby were in danger. She certainly deserved to be safe. I asked if she had anywhere to go. Her parents were dead; she had no siblings. “With you?” she asked. My heart broke. If I had a house, I’m not sure that I could have said no. Of course she would come live with us with her child. I don’t know what it would have solved except kept her safe for a few nights.

I went to Francois and Patrick. They, too, had heard the story. They had urged her to go to the police. The police would arrest the husband, and the woman could safely return to her home. There were advocates for women’s rights here, she would be taken care of. But she had to agree to reporting the crime first. And she wouldn’t agree. “His mother is ill, and I don’t want to kill her.”

I’ve seen this before: denial, protection of the abuser from the victims of domestic abuse. Usually emotional and mental abuse has ripened the soil long before the wounds of violence take shape on the flesh. Domestic violence is not limited to place or time, but certainly is reinforced by poverty. I’ve had many female patients, and some friends who have bared to me the wounds and scars of such violence. And it never gets easier to see. I never stop feeling anger surge into my throat.

I was proud of CONASPEH. Francois and Patrick reached out to their employee, they counseled her, and they warned her of the danger she was in. They also honored her autonomy to make her own decisions. I felt nothing but warm acceptance and compassion. Again, I was proud to be a part of such an organization. And with such a showing of support, I can only hope that the young teacher will find strength in the solidarity of her employers, will one day find courage to recognize her abuser does not have the right to abuse. I can only hope that she’ll come to the realization that she has options and has the support to make hard decisions for her safety and the safety of the child. This is always my hope. And sometimes, miracles happen.

The children today entertained me by reciting their Christmas wish lists. Each child wanted only one thing; a doll, a toy truck, a Gameboy, and a pretend pair of glasses were some of the desired treasures. “When will you bring us our toys?” one boy earnestly asked. Apparently today I resembled a bearded man in red with a belly like a bowl full of jelly. I had to break the news gently that I wasn’t Father Christmas, but helped cheer them up with a diversion. Like the pied piper, Patrick drew the children to him with a ball and engaged some of the younger kids in drills for passing, dribbling and shooting. I was happy to see some young girls take interest, and I joined in the game to encourage their participation. We laughed, we sweat, we encouraged team play. The children laughed and ran and tumbled, all smiles. They helped heal the ache in my stomach for my patient, the powerlessness I felt in my ability to intervene, my fear that she might not show up tomorrow.

A game eventually formed, and I retreated to the bench to play happy observer. I watched one of our kindergarten students sitting on the bench next to me in the red smock of her class, her hair in braids with bright ribbons. Her foot was propped up on her knee to support the book she was reading. She hunched over her papers studiously, and with her pencil outlined the syllables she was sounding out. Her husky little voice practiced the phonetics of her language as she sounded out short phrases. She hardly noticed my presence, so deep was her concentration. I smiled. I can only hope education will empower this little girl, help her think for herself, help her develop a strong identity so that she can build a unique life. I hope education can offer her a future that is as broad as her dreams, that she will find a voice to stand up for herself, to recognize injustice and refuse maltreatment.

We stayed late at the school this afternoon, thoroughly enjoying time with the kids. The girls got a hold of my camera, and because miniature photographers, capturing each other’s faces, taking turns posing, letting the silly faces of childhood be captured in a digital flash. Driving back to the guesthouse, Patrick and I agreed that the children make it easier to get up every day, to keep a smile when it would be easier to cry. They help us heal. They offer perspective. They are the faces of hope. May we love and nurture them well.