Broken Bottles

We went into a new township last Friday in the same area where we go to the HIV support group. This was where I saw some of the worst living conditions I have ever seen.

Trash littered the streets that were lined by rock and mud shacks, so weathered that they could hardly be called homes. Scanning the valley, you hear dozens of roosters crowing, and flea-ridden, mangy dogs barking in a fight. The cloudy gray sky emulated the lethargy of the community all worn down by years of poverty. Children play in the streets with whatever they can find, and puppies are left in the middle of the road to starve, or meet perhaps a different fate. The quality of life is so poor I can't help but think, "How could anyone live this way?" and yet people do every day. Seeing these people still laugh and smile back at me with a returning wave proved what they had not lost hope. It is these people who are helping me to redefine my previous ideas about life, the American dream, happiness, and everything that makes a day worth living.

As we stood in the streets, waiting for one of the social workers, I began pondering everything I thought I knew about what it takes for someone to be genuinely happy. My soul wept for the people we visited that day and in the weeks previous. After a while, it began to lightly rain, and I knew God was weeping too. 

This is a poem I wrote in my journal after Friday:

A withered tired hand

Holds up a weary head

A girl lies on the floor

Where there should be a bed

The darkened room now mocks

The already darkened mind

Leaving only time to think

Of the life that's left behind

Sitting turns to wishing

When all you do is wait

But not too long after's

When the waiting turns to hate

Broken bottles line the streets

They emulate the souls

Strewn about amongst the waste 

And all forgotten goals

Yet amidst all this nothing

The children still laugh and play

Which shows there might be hope

For a better future... some day.

I am being forever changed by this place.