Everyone’s seen the infamous pictures of malnourished African
children- with their bloated stomachs, dusty tattered clothing, and despondent
facial expressions. As Westerners, we view these poignant images, perhaps feel
sorry for a few minutes (maybe longer depending on one’s propensity for
empathy), and yet still fail to take any sort of meaningful action and often completely
forget about the image the instant something more stimulating catches our
attention; I myself have been guilty of such behavior. However, as I type these
words, I can’t seem to forget the face of one particular child I had the
opportunity of encountering today during my first day in the malnutrition unit
of the pediatrics department at UTH. I don’t know her name, I don’t know her
exact medical condition, I don’t know anything about her circumstance- yet I
can’t forget her face, nor can I shake the image of her particularly withered limp
body clinging to her mother’s as she awaited examination from the doctor.
Then there came a realization: there was nothing unique about
this juvenile girl’s emaciated physical condition, as compared to many of the
other children in the ward. They all shared the same sunken faces, skeletal
physiques, and innocent eyes that reflected a certain suffering I never had the
misfortune of knowing as a child. It was this realization as I observed the
examination of the young girl, who must have only been shy of two years- the
realization of the pervasive nature of such an ailing condition (the medical
state of these children being so regular that there is a ward dedicated to
them)- which struck me, hard, and will make it nearly impossible to ever forget
that young girl’s face.
This newfound consciousness prompted me to reflect on my own
childhood, and remember all the suffering I was sheltered from simply because I
had the luck of being born in the “developed West”. Never have I known hunger
or went to sleep hungry; never have I been afflicted with serious illness where
medical professionals lacked the resources to treat me adequately; never have I
experienced doubt in the capacities of medical treatments when I have been sick;
never have my parents needed to summon the courage to tell me, with tears in
their eyes, that they were unable to provide my day to day necessities.
I came to the realization that I do not know true suffering,
and I likely never will.
Yet as I looked around that inadequately supplied malnutrition
ward with new eyes, I realized that so many of these children- who have not
even lived a fraction of the years I have- do
know suffering. How does one live comfortably with that in the back of their
mind? I have known the privilege of opening a fully stocked fridge when hungry,
adequate medical care when sick, and never doubting the safety and cleanliness
of my water supply simply because I had the fortune of being born in a certain
place at a certain time. Nevertheless, I recognized that despite many Americans
affording these privileges we continue to complain and seek out trivial things to
be unhappy about- a habit I have not yet witnessed in Zambian culture. What does
that say about our “great” Western society?
As this reflection now comes to an end, I still see that
child’s face so clearly in my mind- her face, which I will undoubtedly ever
forget. Her face, which will undoubtedly serve as a reminder of the Western
privileges we are afforded and often take for granted. Her face, which will
also serve as a reminder of the room we have to grow as a Western society and
the lessons we can learn from our Zambian sisters and brothers.
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