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It's
dangerous in so star-studded an audience to
single out anyone for special note. But how
could I rise today without observing the
extraordinary service of Mannasseh Phiri, of
Dale Hanson Bourke, and of those who shaped
of an early dream what is now a common
vision: Drs. Jeff and Elizabeth Stringer?
We are especially indebted to each of you.
I'm
joined today by my brother Phillip and his
family, and by my son Max, heirs to the
Fisher Family Foundation in the United
States. The Foundation is a living legacy
of my mother and my late father: founded by
their generosity, dedicated to their values,
eager to support the heroic work being done
in Zambia. Doug Stewart, our Foundation
Executive Director, joined this trip to
demonstrate his personal enthusiasm for this
work. All of us on the board and staff of
the Foundation are honored by the grace with
which you've allowed us a small place in
your nation's work, and we thank you.
In the
years since first I visited Zambia, I've
watched with awe as political, scientific,
and community leaders of this nation stepped
forward to provide wisdom at critical
moments. If once the Centre for Infectious
Disease Research in Zambia was a partnership
of three Zambian and 3 American
professor-physicians, today it is a
partnership of thousands, and a partnership
in which the strength of Zambian leadership
is paramount.
Already
CIDRZ has trained healthcare leaders from a
dozen other African nations as well as the
United States and from China; already it
incorporates emotional, economic and social
wellbeing with physical health. And while
others have written hopefully of
"public-private partnerships," CIDRZ has
become one; while others have wished for a
place of common learning and research for
Africa, CIDRZ is in the process of providing
one.
And so
we have come to this place, on this day, to
open the earth of Zambia, to plant a promise
that will – in buildings and programs,
research and learning, discovery and
publication – flower in the healing of the
nations. Where there has been ignorance, in
this place will come knowledge. Where
suffering and death have held sway, here
will be found comfort and healing. Where
fear remains, here will appear a home of
hope. So we give thanks for the reality of
what CIDRZ has already become. And we
rededicate ourselves, today, to the dream of
what is yet to be.
If I
have come this afternoon to represent a
family foundation, I have also come as a
member of the global AIDS community – a
community into which I was inducted nineteen
years ago.
When
first I learned that I was infected with
HIV, there was no CIDRZ, no antiretroviral
options, no hope for the blessing of old
age. In the discovery of a tiny virus
living within my bloodstream, I became one
with the beggar of Calcutta, the truck
driver of Capetown, the gay man living in
New York's luxury and the unsuspecting
mother stoking a cook fire in Ng'ombe
township. When I went public with my
diagnosis, I was redefined by the illness: I
became, in a matter of hours, "the woman
with AIDS."
In the
years since that time, I have come to see
the world through different eyes. What were
first concerns almost exclusively about my
own children soon became concerns for all
children. What was initially a dread of my
own suffering and death soon grew to a
concern for all who suffer and die at the
mercy of AIDS. Within this community of
sufferers, I soon realized that I was among
the most blessed of sufferers. I had
medical care. I had financial and other
resources, more than enough to assure my
children's future. And I had a family who
chose acceptance over rejection. On his
birthday in 1992, my brother Phillip stood
with me as I told my story to the world. On
his deathbed years later, my father
whispered the same encouragement he had
offered the night I told him I had AIDS: "I
love you, Mary...."
There
are times and places in life when nearly all
of us fear that we are alone: starkly,
absolutely, unquestioningly alone. I think,
I feel, I behave as if my "I" can somehow
exist apart from the "we" to which I was
born. Not only do we feel separate and
apart from others; we feel incompetent,
unable to do what we must do, certain to
fail, destined to be seen by all about us as
failures. What we may dread most in these
moments is the certainty that we cannot
depend on any others; we alone must care for
ourselves...and we cannot.
I was in
a time of dread and isolation when first I
came to Zambia, expecting that I would be
distrusted for my race, my color, my
nationality, my HIV status. I thought I
would be alone here, speaking for a global
organization but experiencing rejection. In
fact, the opposite was true. When I said I
was a mother with AIDS, other mothers also
infected rose from villages and
neighborhoods, danced and sang their way
into my life, and held me while I wept in
gratitude for their affection. I came
around the world, feeling despised and
rejected, only to experience a power of
community in the arms of Zambian sisters who
still bring me delight.
We went
yesterday, some friends and I, to visit
Mother Teresa's school and orphanage and
hospice. We heard the children sing; we
watched the sisters offer lessons in the
classroom and love in the hospice. We saw
both the terror that is AIDS and the triumph
that is healing. And we were reminded,
again, that we are not alone. We are bound
together not simply by a virus but by our
status as human beings. Holding a child in
Mother Teresa's hospice, I was reminded
again of the words left by Mother Teresa
herself: "The biggest disease today," she
said before her death, "is not leprosy or
tuberculosis but rather the feeling of not
belonging."
Here is
the humble truth: I might once have imagined
that I was coming to Zambia to teach and to
lead. I was honored to teach a skill
enabling women to work for a living; I was
enabled, by the patience of others, to help
with some planning and programs. But,
mostly, I did not so much teach here, as
learn. In community circles where stories
are told and women are supported, I was not
the author of wisdom and courage – I was
among those who received these gifts from
others. Entering villages across Zambia, I
feared that I would be turned away.
Instead, I became the humbled stranger
welcomed home. It has been a joyful,
miraculous, humbling experience. I am
deeply, deeply indebted to those of you
whose patience allowed me to receive these
gifts of learning and acceptance. And I am
your most humbled partner.
And I
confess that, as a member of the global AIDS
community, there have been moments when I've
suffered pangs of "survivor guilt." Why
should I live while the infant in my arms
dies? What allows me to enjoy health while
others around me suffer and die of my
disease? During the day, when I am busy,
guilt steps aside for an hour or two. Then
comes the night and I see the faces of
sisters who are wasting, I feel the cooling
hand of a husband nearing death, I lift the
dying child once more to, somehow, breath
into him the breath of life. And I fail.
And so I become again possessed by guilt,
paralyzed at the belief I have failed to
love well enough that others could live.
Today,
here, in this place and on this occasion, I
rise to acknowledge that guilt must give way
to commitment, that agony over survival must
be replaced with the power of dedication.
If I have been humbled and spared by the
hand of God, then I – like you – must live
for a purpose. To do that, I need you as my
partners.
Our
purpose, yours and mine, whether Zambian or
American, male or female, old or young – our
purpose, yours and mine, is to offer
strength to those too weak to carry on;
healing to those whose bodies are wracked by
pain and suffering; knowledge to those whose
ignorance is killing them; and hope to those
for whom hope is a distant imagination. We
cannot do it alone, none of us. We need
each other; we need partners. And I must be
humble enough to ask, to pray, to beg for
your partnership on behalf of those we must
serve.
In a
place devoted to science, it may seem
strange that I should speak of love. But
love is the gritty commitment to enable the
hungry to be fed, the naked to be clothed,
the orphan to be embraced and the weak to be
protected. It is love that demands we be
partners and love that presses us forward,
humbly, to achieve a higher purpose.
So let
us commit ourselves with renewed energy to
the partnership that has brought us to this
day. Let us pledge our mutual energy, our
resources, our knowledge and our leadership
to an enduring partnership that will bring
life to others. Let us stand ready to
exhaust ourselves in the quest for healing,
give ourselves to the cause of justice,
treasure the partnership that has brought us
so far, and claim with humility the promise
that this place, this earth, will give rise
to knowledge, healing and life.
So let
us pledge ourselves to partnership, to
healing, and to those who suffer. Let us
look to one another for strength that will
carry us, and let us offer for each other
the simple, ancient prayer: "Grace to you,
and peace." |
