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General, Poems

A Stranger, a Desire

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A stranger, a mirage, a dream, an image,
An angel a mystery, a beauty or, a desire
An ethereal charm, appearing in the clouds
Streak of rainbow, painting the skies
I hope and pray, my stranger is a dream come true

Hope the sleeping beauty, is resting in comfort,
Pray the lovely angel is dreaming for best,
Wishing the charming angel a lovely night,
The best for her, she is the dearest in sight,
I hope and pray that the stranger is not a dream, but real

She may disappear into the hazy horizon,
I may melt out of her memory as the heat of routine life warms up,
Our ways may part as the woods grow tall and forest deepen,
May forget, ignore, hesitate, and avoid
Yet, will I hope and pray, stranger you are, someone familiar

today… tomorrow… and forever….

With whom there is no shame, no stress, no fear,
With whom there is strength, confidence and disinhibition,
For whom all the six senses become one,
A one sense of love, desire and passion,
A desire so intense that burns every living moment

Will desire for you, my special stranger,
A charm, an angel, warmth, a desire,
One of ethereal beauty, laden with love and intrigue,
Desiring whom is my religion now
Dream come true, a prayer answered, a desire fulfilled, a hope turn real

General, Poems

Be Grateful, Be Faithful

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The qualifications that gave me a job
Are the same someone else have
But do not have a job, Be grateful

The prayer that God answered for me
Is the same others have been praying
Yet remain in waiting, Be grateful

The road I use daily, safely
Is the same road,
Others may have died on, Be grateful

The temple in which God blessed me
Is the same others worship in too
Still their lives are in storms, Be grateful

The bed I used in the hospital
I got healed and discharged,
Is the same others may have died on, Be grateful

The rain that my land thirsted for
And made my field produce good crops,
Is the same that destroyed someone’s field, Be grateful

Whatever I have is not by my power or by my might
But by His Grace, who is the giver of everything
And in everything give thanks, Be grateful

For everything I have wanted, in faith and in hope,
To reach for the skies, to change the world – from shadows to the stars,
God and universe conceived many conspiracies, to help me achieve, Be grateful

Faith, the substance of things hoped for, evidence of things not seen
That sees the invisible, believes the incredible and receives the impossible
Be Faithful and be Grateful

Poems

Christmas Carols

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A tinkle, a bell, the trinket and a jingle,
An ornament, a shimmer, the shine and that sparkle,
A light, a gleam, the spray and the glitter,
The eyes that smile, the fragrance of a laughter,
They deck the halls with boughs of holly,
Its Christmas time to fa la la with the dear.

A song, a trumpet, the beat and a string,
A dance, a tap, to jig and a twirl,
A voice, a chorus, the vocals and a choir,
A line, the verse, the greetings and a prayer,
Joy to the World, The Lord is Come,
Its Christmas time and heaven and nature sing.

An angel, a miracle, the holly and some mistletoe,
A card, a note, the calendar and a souvenir,
A handshake, a peck, the warmth of a hug,
A knock, a snack, and aroma of the dinner,
Jingle bells, jingle bells, dashing through the snow,
Its Christmas time to cheer, laughing all the way.

The Star of Bethlehem, there for us to follow,
A Tree of tradition to display our joys,
The Santa, a reminder of the joy of giving,
Nativity and the manger, reasons for the season,
O’ come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant,
Its Christmas time to rejoice and O’ come let us adore him.

Limitless love, pouring out the hosts,
Prince of peace, mending past pains,
Harbinger of Hope, renewing old friendships,
Messenger of the Father, arrives this season,
Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright,
Its Christmas time again, Jesus Lord at thy birth.

Time to make some new relationships,
Resting by the path to cherish old friendships,
Moment to pause, say sorry and mend differences,
Time to resolve to spread love, hope and peace,
Hark the Herald angels sing, Glory to the new-born King
Its Christmas time to cheer and celebrate with the dear.

Uncategorized

The Ebola Line

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It was September of 2014, one night during my second week in Freetown, Sierra Leone, I suddenly woke up at around 3am, sweating profusely. My bed was damp. I felt a faint scratchy feeling in my throat that one feels before getting flu. I felt warm. I looked around in dark, fearful and searching. It turned out that the air-conditioner was out. I could hear my heart pounding and I felt shaken. “Did I get IT?” The many things that I had done in the preceding many days, since my arrival, started reeling in front of my eyes. Walking into my room with the same shoes that I had worn and walked around in the community; having held the papers and documents and worked on the computers that were used by the many locals; unsure about the strength of the chlorine hand-wash that I had been using over ten times in a day; having used the office furniture at the district health and medical office that was shared by many at the workplace… every small routine activity of my daily life felt like an irresponsible risky act that may have been a potential source of Ebola transmission, and it could have been anything and everything that I did. It all lay threateningly bare in front of my eyes despite the pitch darkness in the room at this hour. At that time of the night, I could do nothing. Almost nothing. I pulled out my Bible from underneath my pillow, which I had stopped keeping there for several years now. For some reason I had decided to indulge in a ritualistic behaviour since the time I landed in Sierra Leone and had been religiously keeping my Bible under the pillow although not necessarily reading it. I read a few verses and just knelt down and prayed and Thanked God. I woke up the next morning and it was business as usual, on the frontlines of Ebola response.

During my short stay of a month in Sierra Leone, I woke up every morning, Thanking God that I could see another day, that I continued to be symptom free, that I continued to be afebrile (without fever), that there was no scratchy feeling in my throat.

Upon return to US, although as per the recommended protocol there was no need for isolation or living separately from the family, I self-imposed on myself a 21-day basement isolation. Not a scientifically right thing to do but given the unfortunate situations my colleagues had to face, this was a necessity. Two of my colleagues who returned from Ebola response had their spouses, who were school teachers, forced to stay away from the school for 21 days and in another instance a child in the elementary school was to stay at home. Having an eight year old at home, I felt it was best for me to stay away from my son for 21-days, just in case the school would be concerned if he was ‘exposed’ to me and then force him to stay away from school.

Those 21 days were interesting, distressing and most importantly very revealing, allowing me time for thoughtful introspection on many things in life. Returning from a work travel of a month-long duration and then staying at home but isolated in the basement for another three weeks, it was not an easy experience. The desire and want to play, to hold and hug my little boy and yet being not able to do so reminded me of the situations that the health care workers on the frontlines in Sierra Leone and other countries were living in. They who had responded to the call of duty and rather a call of humanity were touching the victims and comforting them as part of their physician duties. And yet when it came to their own personal lives they missed the same touch and comfort. One of the nurse had not held her children in a month, she was afraid of infecting them. They had to really struggle and hold themselves back from affectionately hugging their own loved ones, even someone who would have just lost ten of his/her family members or crying for the five children who were buried in unmarked graves, perhaps in a mass grave, because they died before anyone could get their names.

I was eating and drinking in disposable paper and foam plates and glasses. My wife would walk half way down the basement stairs and leave my dinner in a paper plate on the floor of the stairs that I would then pick up, take it to the basement room. Nothing that I touched would go back up to the main floor. I was to record and report my temperature and status on a twice-a-day basis to three different health departments / agencies and do so for 21 days. If I missed reporting any day, I would get a phone call from them checking on me if I was alright or not. This was an experiential indicator of a well-functioning health care system that was so very much wanting in West Africa. Identifying contacts of cases and tracing them over a period of time was one of the most crucial activities in the response and continued to be the most challenging and demanding activities requiring larger resources and failure to fool-proof it was what driving the outbreak.

My eight year old had, by now, read and knew pretty much a lot about Ebola. During those few moments of family time in the back yard, separated from my wife and son, by no less than 15 feet of distance, my son would show an imaginary line on the ground and call it ‘The Ebola Line’ and tell me, “Daddy, do NOT cross this line.” It was funny but was so very symbolic of the many such lines that the health care workers in the affected countries were required to or forced to cross during the Ebola times, in response to their call of duty, making me feel ashamed and guilty that I left in a month and there was so very little we could do and expected so much more from the locals.

To date I continue to live with that shame and guilt as I still continue to carefully and cautiously not cross that Ebola line, that may threaten my or my family’s existence.

General

Risking their lives – The Real Heroes

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The Ebola Outbreak in West Africa
The Ebola Outbreak in West Africa

Lying in a Medecins Sans Frontieres (Doctors Without Borders) mobile tent clinic was a 39 year old man. Just another victim of the outbreak. Sheikh Humarr Khan, a virologist and doctor had in the recent days treated more than hundred Ebola victims. He was not just another victim, he was a National Hero in Sierra Leone and to the world.

The story of Dr. Sheik Humarr Khan is and will be a legend for centuries to come, in Sierra Leone. A globally renowned expert in tropical disease, a hero who ran Sierra Leone’s worst Ebola ward, top graduate in his class, head of the Lassa fever ward, had treated more cases of hemorrhagic fever than anyone else in the world, soon headed to Harvard on sabbatical to work at the cutting edge of tropical disease research — mapping the virus genome. But then, Khan was facing the greatest challenge of his life and eventually sacrificed his life to it.

Health care workers like Dr. Khan were at the greatest risk during the times of Ebola, being the first port of call for anyone and everyone who was sick. The worst part of Ebola was that it was mercilessly punishing those who cared for others, who cared for people with Ebola or the affected families.

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Despite the protective clothing and PPE, despite all the precautionary measures, despite having all the knowledge and awareness, it was a battle not between the virus and the physician but a battle on the choices these health care workers had to make. The choices of steering away from an outbreak that was spreading like wild fire and particularly consuming those that were on the forefront of the response, the medical staff versus volunteering to be another victim to a large scale outbreak and fulfilling the Hippocratic oath he or she had taken to serve as a doctor and keep the patients well-being in their mind always. They chose the latter and they made those choices at the cost of their own lives. The CDC workers had it drummed into them that one of the most dangerous things they could do was touch another human being and yet the health care staff on the forefront of this battle required them to just do that.

Another of Sierra Leone’s top doctors died from Ebola hours after the arrival in the country of an experimental drug, but a bit too late. Dr. Victor Willoughby was the eleventh doctor to die to the Ebola outbreak and was known as the country’s best known and most respected doctors.

At a time  when “You cannot touch anyone” or “You cannot comfort them” were being echoed out loud at every work place and at homes of victims, the health care workers responded to the call of duty and rather a call of humanity to be touching the victims and comforting them as part of their physician duties. And yet when it came to their personal lives they missed the same touch and comfort. One of the nurse had not held her children in a month, she was afraid of infecting them.

When a six year old boy died, a responder wanted to console and calm his sister. However, the ability of the responder to touch the child, to hold her or to talk to her were limited significantly due to the personal protective equipment (PPE). A real human touch was rendered impossible by the virus. The sister died the next day. The tragedy of this situation was that the very gestures that are meant to offer comfort, assurance and condolence during a death, were considered to be the most dangerous gestures. One could not give an assuring hug or put an affectionate hand on the shoulder even in the time of death, the most irreparable loss a human endures.

Sadly and unfortunately, the very people who were responsible for and who had volunteered to, take care of the sick were the most and worst affected. Close to a thousand health care workers had contracted Ebola and more than half of them had died and they included doctors, nurses, phlebotomists and laboratory staff. They all had at some point taken care of their own colleagues and watched them all die. Yet, they were still going back into the wards, making the same choices again, doing their work not just because it was their duty or responsibility but because someone had to do this, and they were the only ones who could. Liberia already had only a few dozen of its own doctors. Then came Ebola. Just to put into perspective, as per 2006 health survey there were 51 Liberian doctors in Liberia, a country with only one medical college, of whom only a handful were left with the rest consumed by the Ebola fire. They were the only people who could handle Ebola and one by one they were being hand-picked by the virus. The country was losing best and the brightest one by one, day by day, it was as if the destiny was written all over for anyone taking care of Ebola victims.

Sheikh Humarr Khan was not just a Doctor, he was not just another Ebola victim. He was a National Hero, who and the likes of whom are Risking their Lives to keep rest of us alive and safe.

General

Baby in the Box

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Hospital

 

July of 2014, it was just another day, as any other normal day would be, normal by the ‘not-really-normal’ standards that had set into the routine life of anyone and everyone, during the Ebola times.

A mother and child came to this remote rural hospital. The mother was sick and she was carrying her baby, an infant, in a swaddle. It was a fairly run down facility, rather poor in infrastructure but yet the best available, nearest for this family. The Kenema Hospital was a local, government health center.

This was somewhere deep inside rural Sierra Leone, in West Africa, a country that had still not recovered from over a decade long civil war between 1991 and 2002, with large visible traces of its impact clearly standing out in every aspect of human life, including the health care services and infrastructure. A war that had consumed over 50,000 lives. Ebola was by now already threatening to be worse, or perhaps it was already, given the devastation caused by the virus in less than six months, with already 700 victims.

The mother presented with complaints that were suggestive of Ebola and she was admitted to a holding center. Holding center is a facility where, a suspected case is kept while waiting for laboratory testing to confirm or rule out Ebola. When the results came positive, she was moved to the Ebola treatment unit, which is a facility where confirmed positive Ebola patients are kept, managed and cared for.

The infant, appeared well, yet the recommended precautionary procedures required that the baby be not touched until tested negative. Blood sample from the infant was collected and sent for laboratory testing.

May to November is the rainy season in Sierra Leone, during which at times the rainfall could be torrential. This was July and interestingly in August, next month, there will be a period called the ‘seven day rainfall’, when it rains incessantly for seven days straight without interruption. This year this rainfall would be symbolic of how many tears the Gods above would be shedding.

Eventually the mother and her medical staff, both lost their battles to the Ebola virus. The mother died, leaving behind the infant, an orphan. Seeing and experiencing the magnitude of sickness and deaths, the staff remained comforted because by then the baby’s test results had come.

The baby had tested negative. That afternoon, despite seeing the child orphaned, there was still something to cheer about in the ward.

Because the baby was in contact with the mother all this time and was being breast-fed, and the mother had died to Ebola, the protocol required that the baby be watched closely. Therefore, the staff (largely nurses) decided to keep the baby in the hospital. Since the baby had tested negative and the ward had confirmed (tested positive) cases on the beds, they decided to keep the baby close to them, in the nursing station area. It would have also been easier to keep a close watch on. The space was limited and all that was available there was an old used card-board box. The nurses nicely swaddled the child and placed in that cardboard box, the best basket available there. ‘Basket’, not the kind they call as ‘Moses Basket’ but indeed, so very symbolic.

During the times of Ebola it was a very difficult decision to make, between holding or hugging and caring for an orphan child versus following the recommended infection control measures strictly and letting the baby lie in a box and wait and watch with hope, expectations and prayers. How could anyone see a sick looking baby and not love and comfort. One had to just do what is right, just what you and I would have done in any other normal life situation. Except, that the times of Ebola were not really normal life situation. The times called for, not to touch your one-year-old child when she is having fever, vomiting or bleeding and is in pain and one doesn’t know yet if she has Ebola or not. What would you do?

For the nurses in Kenema general hospital, for the human inside them, the woman inside them and for the mother inside them, it was not a very difficult decision to make, and a decision they made without any hesitation. They couldn’t just watch the baby lying in the box alone, especially having been orphaned recently. They, every one of them, would therefore, pick up the baby from time to time, cuddle the child and hug and care just like they would do to their own child.

Also during these times when death, chaos, pain and loss was sweeping across families, neighborhoods, communities and the countries, normal people including the nurses like above, found solace, great comfort and joy in gently lifting the baby from the box and hugging and cuddling, during their busy work hours and also at the end of their tiring work shifts, when they wanted to relax. The baby stood as a symbol of hope and comfort, not just for the baby herself but for all around her.

And since the baby had tested negative, there was comfort, there was assurance and there was joy.

What followed in the next four weeks will remain heart-rending… and shakes the very foundation of humanity that believes in loving, caring and sharing, in compassion and, in faith.

Twelve of the nurses contracted Ebola, and only one survived. The baby had died a few days back.

What actually happened…?

Just a few days before, the baby had started to become ill

Panic swept through the staff.

Samples from the baby were sent for testing.

There were fearful gasps as the word spread that…

“The baby tested positive for Ebola”.

One after the other, the staff who did nothing wrong, had just cared for an orphan, cuddled an infant, started showing signs of Ebola, as they all became ill. Their only ‘epidemiologic-link’, call it a ‘mistake’, call it a ‘responsibility’, the ‘call of duty’, was taking care for this baby. I would call it the truer than true ‘human touch’.

In the following weeks, at least twelve nurses connected to the baby-in-the-box, became victim to the Ebola virus. Was it from the “baby in the box”? May be, may be not. We will never know.

Eleven of them died.

I was not there, so this story may be inaccurate in some details or may appear to be a bit twisted, but it is a fact, it is true that something like this happened and that the nurses at Kenema hospital in Sierra Leone took care of an orphan baby in a card-board box as there was no place, after the mother had died to Ebola, and that the baby had died and, that almost all the nurses working in that ward, in that nursing station, had died.

Why did the nurses die? Did they commit a mistake? Did they make any wrong choices in life? Choosing to spread human love over, self? People had to really struggle and hold themselves back from hugging anyone, even someone who had just lost all of his/her family members or someone, a mother who was crying for all of her five children who were buried in unmarked graves, possibly in a mass grave, because they died before anyone could get their names and there wasn’t enough space in the burial ground.

Looking back, the details and accuracies seem not relevant or unimportant. The fact, told as a story, of the “baby in the box” is now, a legend. A telling legend of humanity, and also sadly a stark and tragic reminder of how normal and spontaneous humane and human expressions and forms of love, caring, affection, and hugging were forbidden in times of Ebola. The simple yet powerful expressions of human brotherhood, that are the very fabric and foundational strength of humanity, of every human society, turned to be deadly. Ebola was annihilating humanity by annihilating humans. Someone rightly wrote, “The Ebola virus preys on care and love, piggybacking on the deepest, most distinctively human virtues.”

One spur-of-the-moment uncalculated deed of kindness and act of humanity would spread the virus and spread the disease. The wicked virus during the West African outbreak had a pervasiveness that gave it a perverse ability to twist humanity into a painful liability.

Yet, the “Baby in the Box”, is remembered as a tale that reflected unconditional human love during times of fear and devastation. Of fearless faith in fellow humans, a faith, that is the substance of things we each hope for, the evidence of miracles that we cannot see but surely believe in.

General

The Lion of Judah, Aslan and the Pride of Abyssinia

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The Lion of Judah, Aslan and the Pride of Abyssinia 
(this article is an edited compilation)

LoJ1

This is the story of a lion by name Aslan, the King of Beasts, son of the Emperor-over-the-Sea, a wise compassionate Savior. Aslan, the Lion, also a Lamb, at the same time, is a symbol of pride in one and many ways as we will come to understand. This is also the story of The Lion of Judah, the scriptural reference, a mythological character, symbol of the Almighty and a blessing from ‘Jacob’, a patriarch who appears in all the three monotheistic religions. This is the story of Zerai Deres, just another normal man, an almost unknown martyr defending his faith, a loyal fighter and a man of pride. The three different stories find a convergence in the Kingdom of Abyssinia, the land of Ethiopia, on a very common theme, the theme of ‘Pride and Patriotism’.

Zerai Deres, an Eritrean stands tall as a symbol of pride in Ethiopia, evident both in actions as well as words, among Ethiopians who take a great pride in their roots and the history of their country. Zerai Deres, laid down his life in respect for the Lion of Judah, a sacrifice that laid the foundation for an eventual return to home of the historic statue. Both ‘the statue’ and the ‘return to home’ of the statue are symbolic of the return from great exile of a great Jewish nation, as documented in the scriptures and history books.

Extending from the sixth to the fifteenth degree of north latitude, and situated to the south of Nubia, is the Kingdom of Abyssinia, largely not accurately, the current day Ethiopia. Derived from Habech, Abyssinia answers to the Upper, or Eastern, Ethiopia of the ancients, and comprises four provinces: Tigré, Amhara, Goggiam, and Shoa, four small kingdoms entrusted to as Ras, or Negus, whence the title, negus-se-néghest, i.e., “King of Kings”, assumed by the emperor of Abyssinia, described…

The Lion of Judah is the symbol of the Hebrew tribe of Judah, a royal Jewish tribe from which Messiah the Prince should come. According to the scriptures, specifically in the Torah and the Bible, the tribe consists of the descendants of Judah, the fourth son of Jacob. Mentioned in several places including in the book of Genesis and the book of Revelations. In Genesis, the patriarch Jacob (‘Israel’) gave that symbol to his tribe (of Judah) when he refers to his son Judah as a ‘cub’, “Young Lion” while blessing him, Genesis 49:9. “You are a lion’s cub, Judah; you return from the prey, my son. Like a lion he crouches and lies down, like a lioness–who dares to rouse him?” The Lion of Judah was used as a Jewish symbol for many years, and as Jerusalem was the capital of the Kingdom of Judah, in 1950 it was included in the Emblem of Jerusalem. The Lion also finds mention in the book of Revelations, as representing Jesus. Quoting the book of Revelations 5:5. “And one of the elders saith unto me, Do not weep! Behold, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has triumphed. He is able to open the scroll and its seven seals thereof.” The Lion here is widely regarded as a reference to Jesus Christ.

The treatise of “Kebre Negest” or the Glory of the Kings, is a 13th century account of the Solomonic lines of origin of the Ethiopian Emperors, a document that is more than 700 years old and is considered as a reliable account of Ethiopian history by the Ethiopian Christians and the Rastafari (who is that? keep reading!). The treatise describes how the Queen of Sheba, Queen Makeda of Ethiopia met King Solomon and, about how the Ark of the Covenant came to Ethiopia with Menelik I (Menyelek). It also discusses the conversion of the Ethiopians from the worship of the Sun, Moon and stars to that of the “Lord God of Israel”.

In the story of Aslan, the Deep Magic as referred to by C. S. Lewis, is akin to the laws and rules laid down in the Torah, the first five books of the Hebrew Bible, which Christians call the Old Testament. Deeper Magic is symbolic of the grace, mercy, and sacrifice emphasized in the Christian New Testament with Aslan’s sacrifice representing Christ’s crucifixion. Aslan, Turkish for Lion, is shown to be gentle and loving, all-powerful and can be dangerous, not just a tame lion. Aslan’s sacrifice and subsequent resurrection parallel Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection. The Emperor-Over-the-Sea refers to God the Father. As C. S. Lewis states: Aslan is not an allegorical portrayal of Christ, but rather a suppositional incarnation of Christ Himself. Author goes on to say, “If Aslan represented the immaterial Deity, he would be an allegorical figure. In reality however, he is an invention giving an imaginary answer to the question, ‘What might Christ become like if there really were a world like Narnia and if He chose to be incarnate and die and rise again in that world as He actually has done in ours?’ This is not allegory at all”. Aslan, the Lion, also a Lamb, at the same time, is a symbol of pride in one and many ways. In the year 375, Saint Augustine, an early Christian theologian and philosopher compared Jesus both with a lamb and with a lion during his passion as well as in his resurrection: “Why a lamb in his passion? Because he underwent death without being guilty of any iniquity. Why a lion in his passion? Because in being slain, he slew death. Why a lamb in his resurrection? Because his innocence is everlasting. Why a lion in his resurrection? Because everlasting also is his might”. Described earlier, the biblical references of Christ being referred to as a lion, ‘Aslan is Jesus Christ’.

It is written in ‘Kebre Negest’ that the descendants in Ethiopia are from a retinue of Israelites who returned along with Queen Makeda, (the Queen of Sheba) when she was returning from her visit to King Solomon in Jerusalem. By the King Solomon of Jerusalem, Queen of Sheba had conceived the Solomonic dynasty’s founder named Ebn Melek (later Emperor Menelik (I)), in Ethiopia, and as Solomon was of the tribe of Judah, his son Menelik I would continue the Solomonic line, which according to Ethiopian history was passed down from King to King until Emperor Haile Selassie I, ostensibly the 225th king from King David, was deposed in 1974. Both Christian and Jewish Ethiopian history have it that there were also immigrants of the Tribes of Dan and Judah that accompanied Queen Makeda back from her visit to Solomon; hence The Lion of Judah, is included among the titles of the Emperor throughout the Solomonic Dynasty in Ethiopia. When he was of age, Ebn Melek (Menelik) returned to Israel to see his father, who sent with him the son of Zadok to accompany him with a replica of the Ark of the Covenant (Ethiosemitic: tabot). On his return with some of the Israelite priests, however, he found that Zadok’s son had stolen the real Ark of the Covenant. Some believe the Ark is still being preserved today at the Church of Our Lady Mary of Zion in Axum, Ethiopia. The tradition that the biblical Queen of Sheba was a ruler of Ethiopia who visited King Solomon in Jerusalem in ancient Israel is supported by the 1st century AD Jewish historian Flavius Josephus, who identified Solomon’s visitor as a queen of Egypt and Ethiopia.

In the Ethiopian history, both from a historical perspective and political perspective, the Lion of Judah was one of the titles of the Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie (1913-1936) and was depicted on the flag of Ethiopia from 1897-1974. Haile Selassie I was the throne name for Ras Tafari Makonnen who was the cousin of then Empress Zauditu. Zauditu a Christian nobility and Menelik’s (Menelik II) daughter died in 1930 when Rastafari Makonnen took over the throne as Emperor Haile Selassie I. Due to its association with Selassie, the Lion of Judah, continues to be an important symbol among members of the Rastafari movement. The Rastafari believe that “The Lion of Judah” mentioned in Genesis 49:9 and Revelation 5:5 is considered to be a reference to Emperor Haile Selassie I of Abyssinia. Interestingly, Haile Selassie is believed to be the biblical lion of Judah, crowned on 2 November 1930, with the title “His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie I, Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah, King of Kings of Ethiopia LORD of lords, the Light of the World and Elect of God.” a descendant of the tribe of Judah through the lineage of King David and King Solomon. The Lion of Judah therefore became the personal symbol of Emperor Haile Selassie I.

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The statue of The Lion of Judah is a glorious historical Ethiopian monument. Clearly intended to be so, the sacrifice made by Zeria Deres established it a monumental status to what is clearly believed and is a fact documented in several scriptures and described above, is the meaning, significance and importance of the Lion of Judah. The statue of Lion of Judah, standing tall on a black granite pedestal, decorated with portraits of Emperors Menelik II, Haile Selassie I, Empress Zewditu I, as well as Ras Makonnen Wolde Mikael, signifies the Ethiopian culture. The statue in particular has a very interesting and significant history besides the historical relevance and religious reverence to the symbol, of the Lion of Judah. This statue is a symbol of sacrifice and patriotism, that Ethiopians take pride in.

Historically, the monument of the Lion of Judah, was one of several unveiled for the Emperor’s coronation (Emperor Haile Selassie I) in 1930 in Addis Ababa. The Italian army, under the direction of dictator Benito Mussolini, invaded and occupied Ethiopian territory on October 2, 1935, interrupting Emperor Haile Selassie’s reign. They occupied the capital Addis Ababa on May 5. Emperor Haile Selassie pleaded to the League of Nations for aid in resisting the Italians. Nevertheless, the country was formally annexed on May 9, 1936 and the Emperor went into exile. The invading Italian army occupied Addis Ababa (1936-41) and began to make plans to seize the monuments they liked to send back as spoils of war to Rome. They demolished several monuments to Emperor Menelik, who defeated the Italians in 1896. The Lion of Judea, despite weighing several tons, was shipped off to Rome and erected next to the large white Vittorio (Victor) Emanuelle Monument in time for the fourth anniversary of the declaration of the New (Fascist) Italian Empire.

During the fourth anniversary of the Italian Empire’s proclamation, Adolf Hitler chose to visit Rome, and attended the celebratory parades alongside the Fascist dictator Benito Mussollini and King Victor Emanuelle III. Numerous soldiers from Italy’s African Empire marched in attendance including a young Eritrean named Zerai Deres. Zerai Deres was marching with other parade members carrying a ceremonial sword which he was to salute the King, the Fuhrer, and II Duce, at the grandstand. As the parade of soldiers marched past the Vittorio Emauele II monument, Zerai glanced up and to his shock saw the golden lion statue and realized he was looking at the looted monument, the personal symbol of his Emperor. In Zerai’s perception, the Lion of Judah statue stood and presently stands as a symbol of the ancient Ethiopian monarchy that his ancestors owed a long and strong allegiance. To witness and see the Lion of Judah statue erected as war booty in the heart of Rome, became too much for him to bear. The young man was kindled with tears of patriotism and anger, and defiantly interrupted proceedings to kneel and pray before it. When the police verbally and physically attempted to stop his prayers, he rose and promptly drew his ceremonial sword and killed and wounded many Italian military officers screaming ‘the Lion of Judah is avenged!”. In some time, Zerai Deres was finally subdued and was either killed or died seven years later in an Italian prison. His legend lives on in Ethiopia and Eritrea and he has been known as an Ethiopian Patriot.

The Lion of Judah Monument remained in Rome for several decades. In 1960 after long negotiations, the statue was repatriated while Emperor Haile Selassie was still in power. On the day of the lion statue arrival, Emperor Haile Selassie I, who returned to the throne in spring (5 May) 1941 when the Italians were defeated by British and Allied forces (including Ethiopian forces), was present in military uniform to salute and pay tribute to Zerai Deres.

Following the 1974 revolution, the Derg regime decided to remove the lion statue once more as it resembled a monarchist Empire. However, due to the elderly association of war veterans, they appealed to the Derg to consider the memory of Zerai Deres and his sacrifice. It was that act of sacrifice, loyalty and patriotism of Zerai Deres, which was reminded by the veterans that saved the statue and it stood in its Imperial glory even through the Derg era and continues to stand today.

As history goes to show, The Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah prevailed, so shall it always be!

General

Does God Exist? – Exodus 20:2

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Does God Exist? – Exodus 20:2

Chess-God-Vs-Devil-Wallpaper-1680x1050

(a seven part article)

Part – I: Does God Exist?

Beep beep…. Beep beep…. Beep beep…. The gateways to my eyes barely opened, and my right hand stretched out in quite a ritualistic and practiced manner, without even holding it, touched the ‘ten-minute’ snooze option on the touch-screen of my blackberry. Ah these ten-minutes… they are the best six hundred seconds of my sleep. I snuggle back into the quilt, warm and cozy as another hand from the far corner of the bed stretches out and envelopes me into its safe ensconce. My mind seesawed between the comfort of a good sleep and the joy of a faint snooze, for, I don’t know how long, but it did seem like a really long time. Many things happened during that one sixth of an hour. It’s all so fuzzy…

Beep beep… Beep beep… Beep beep… it went off again, and this time around there was nothing I could do. This time it had gone well past beyond both, my desire and my control. I had to yield. Being an army brat, yielding to the temptation of a disciplined life is a routine, just a normal part of life rituals. Waking up on time is just one of the many such things, first among the many temptations that I yield to. A disciplined set-time start to a day, everyday. Yielding, just like I do everyday as a beautiful tribal ritual. Yielding, just like the many temptations in life that I have given into, every waking moment of my life and every sleeping second of my sleep. Always the same set of excuses, it has gone beyond me, both, beyond my desire and beyond my control.

It is a good discipline to yield to the wake up call every time the conscience in you sets the alarm off, and honor the clock of morality inside you. But do I do it always? Not really, because ‘discipline’ and ‘yielding’ don’t always really  go together, not from my perspective. I think they are counterintuitive; it can only be one or the other, but never both. So I don’t really always yield or in other words always honor, rather, I do it only when it pleases me or works to my advantage. There are so many times I have given in to the many temptations of life, the many wrongs that have knocked at my doors as disciplined invitations and attractive enticements. Bribes and baits lurking at those fantastic corners of life, drawing the six senses of my physical body away from the safe ensconcing grip of its spirit. What have I not been, a deceiver, at times a fornicator, other times an idolater, covetous, a drunkard, reviler, extortionist who has walked in lasciviousness, lusts, excesses such as revelings, banquetings and abominable idolatries. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak, for much as I wish to do or to not do something, the frailties of this ‘human’ body often make it impossible. Sometimes it’s the inability to say no to a friend, sometimes it’s the desire to just check it out, another times it’s the rules of the game and at times it’s the work place policy or even procedures in the school. There is always a good reason, logical all the time. Every organ system of the body has consistently and disciplinedly contributed to this yielding of mine… haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, heart that devises wicked plans, feet that hurry to run to evil, lying witness who testifies falsely, and a sower of discord in a family. Every vice, every wickedness that the clock of morality in me alerted me to time and again, and yet I ignore that clock, time and again. An excusable personal-policy-driven discipline that I have inculcated as a habit, all my life, and in the process giving into the wrongs of the world and thereafter every time blaming it onto something or someone. In any case, this was one ‘time’ again; I yielded, to the ten-minute snooze of my blackberry. But this one, I am so happy to!

But then who defined vices as vices and wickedness as wickedness? The Human me, or the God he? Or the laws of the land? But then ‘I’ wrote the laws of the land. Somewhere deep in the subconscious mind each one of us know the right and wrong and each one of us has been given the wisdom to choose the right over the wrong. And yet we choose the wrong over the right, why? Isn’t the same wisdom responsible for ‘us’ making those choices? Or is it the creator who so methodically and meticulously made me, also made those flaws or call them allowances, for me to go out and be fruitful? If so then is a wrong, really wrong?

With the beep beeps still ringing in my ears and the many thoughts ringing in my mind, the entrance to my eyes unlocked slowly but fully with the second round of alarm beeps. The gates flung open endorsing my mind to step out into another dawn, dawn of life, red-carpeting the path with a thin-film of an early morning tear, almost a drop in the making. A tear of sheer joy; joy of being so full of life; life to claim being alive for another day; day that presents just one new chance; chance perhaps to try ‘it’ out once again; again this time to make the right choice of a moral living; living it sincerely and this time living it better; better in my many unsuccessful yet determined attempts; attempts to answer a four decades old question; question: “Does God exist?”

By the way, they call me ‘Human’, that is my name. Here on. Interesting, they say that God, if he does exist, decided in his book, called the Book of ‘Genesis’: “Let us make man in our image, in our likeness; so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals, and over all the creatures that move along the earth.” Have always wondered, if he created us in his own image then why did he call us ‘Human’ and called himself ‘God’? Just as I ask that question, the unyielding disciplinarian inside me yells to me, it is time to get up, another day, and another attempt to answer the four decades old question, “Does God exist?”

Part II – I died

It is Saturday morning and the time was ten past ten. I dragged my body off the bed and my feet lagged behind on the ground drawn into the kitchen. I slammed the door to the microwave, with a bowl of lentil soup with some meat stew turning it on, for ten minutes to heat up. Only ten minutes because out of some bitter experience, I have known, that so perfect eleventh minute very liberally allows rather gravitates… or should I say anti-gravitates, the soup to successfully bubble over the edges down the walls of the bowl onto the expansive microwave floor. No mistaking this time that eleventh minute. Well everyone makes mistakes and we learn from them and have I. I have made mistakes while cooking too, cooking my life out of nothingness since I was born or rather created as a man, all through the course of my evolution for those who are Darwinism believers and evolutionists. After all we are all believers, some in God and some in Darwin. In any case, in my efforts to: make myself fittest and therefore survive, present myself warm, with the right mix of flavors and ensure that I am acceptable to the tastes of some or perhaps to the tastes of all around me, the family, village, society, country and the law, I have continually made mistakes, learned from them and have continued to evolve. So will I make that mistake again? No, not this time, this time it will be ten minutes only, just enough to get the right warmth and flavor to my soup and stew. And the hum of the microwave trailed off as my ears were led away from that sound carried on their feet.

I walked into the bath to cleanse myself, another ritualistic act that constituted a start of every day, another day, a new day. This was an unusually early start for a Saturday I must say, and I decided to let my body splurge some of its time in the luxury of the Jacuzzi. The wetness tingled my skin momentarily before the warm water started to massage my deeper tissues. Aah, the thick streams of hot water slamming against my muscles, so very rejuvenating, so very relaxing. It is like feeding into me a new energy, in fact a new body over the one that has got worn out after a week-long of toil. Just as they say, being reborn, in a new spirit, the anointed one. As the foam started building up, my mind circled back. Circled back to the past nearly two decades of my life, of my many accomplishments and successes. My chest puffed up, not to the warmth of the heat or soaking of the water but to the pride of my achievements. Academics, profession, personal life, finances, marriage, talents, family, network, material richness’s, fame… name it and I got it. I therefore, had every reason to feel proud about and my chest had every reason to be puffed up in pride, with arrogance and an air of cockiness. Here I was, indulging in the ritualistic act of cleansing my body but the spirit was so deeply engrossed in its own selfish, arrogant boastful celebrations of its own accomplishments, accomplishments of material and earthly nature. As the images of my many masqueraded Nobels and Oscars paraded in front of my closed eyes, on the screen of the inside of my lids, the human in me looked more like a God to me. And then the human in me… at this moment, the God in me rested. Hours passed… or so I thought.

I was drowning, or it felt like so, not able to breathe and feeling drenched all over my body, at least the part that I think was exposed in its stark nakedness… Yes, I am certain, I was drowning. In that moment of near-death, my life started to reel in front of my eyes. A feeling of deep guilt and utter shame shrouded me that very moment, shame of being naked, in many ways and the guilt emanating from a beating contrite heart. Guilt for what the devil in me had done and for what the human being in me had not done that he should have. Ironically the God in me had consistently taken prideful and authoritative responsibility for many things in life, as well as accepted standing credible acknowledgement for all the on-goings and happenings of my past and present, besides, also very cleverly justified every bad and wrong doing as well as prided in every good. However, in this moment of near-death guilt as I was drowning, my arrogance, the cockiness around me and the God within me, were slowly but reluctantly melting away giving way to a desperate begging for forgiveness, searching for a hand of help with a massive collapse of the God inside me. It felt like I was in deep, cold waters just deep enough to suffocate me yet with a silver lining of hope, hope that I was close enough to the surface, close enough, that one nod of willingness from my side, permitting ‘life’ in its efforts to struggle and save my face up through the surface, will indeed pull me out of this bad dream. One nod, just one nod, that would in fact be ‘my’ catholic confession, my first and most sincere desire for atonement. It occurred to me like I was in a loop, like those many futile attempts of sanity and purity during my youthful days of life, attempting to extricate me out of my own nature, nature of sin and of drudgery and digging me out of a life full of corruption and selfishness. A perfectly symmetrical loop of, a sincere attempt to atone followed by a magnificent failure articulated by my own hands leading into another gloriously treacherous two-faced life of deceit, betrayal, moral lawlessness hidden from my other half and from rest of the world. That’s the perfect Human I have evolved into as Darwin described after having been created so beautifully in his own image by the God.

I was definitely drowning, not because it felt like so, but because at this time, death appeared to be a sweeter alternative than living this perfectly symmetrical loop of life. Yes, I am certain, I was drowning. In that moment of near-death, I kneeled down in my mind, not for forgiveness but more likely begging answer to the question, that makes more desperate meaning now than ever before, “Does God exist?”

And then it rang… think it sounded like the sound of an alarm, or was it not. My mind may later make some right connections and configure out what that so very distant, distinct yet familiar sound was? For now, it was another alarm, another alert warning. I was drowning and likely about to die. My last breath.

Part III – A second chance

Beep beep…. Beep beep… I woke up, totally shaken, it was my sweat that had gotten my pillows and quilt drenched overnight and in a meaningful poetic revenge that they were taking, I was now drowning in the drench, of my own making. Drowning in my own mistakes, of the volume of my ignominious past that has been dotted with my goods and bads; drowning in the gallons of my deceitful shame mixed and shaken with a few momentary niceties and acts of kindnesses; and drowning my overflowing sullied, corrupted life that had flashes of worthiness at times and few half to quarter rainbows of romances with the same life. Having woken up, it still felt like I was fighting the strong waves of my thoughts that continued to drag my feet into the depths. I knew I have managed to stay afloat. Another successful save, giving me, the human in me, another opportunity to walk the continual walk of evolution and please my creator for laying that so very perfect stone of foundation in me when he breathed life into my nostrils. I woke up, shaken but alive. Afraid but so very assuredly happy, that I was alive.

It was still dark, or so it appeared. Dark despite the time of the day, think it was late. Well it was dark, because the cover of the window curtains protected me, and my nakedness, from being visible to the outside world. How sweet, how astutely sneaky? Trying to look around in that very little light, my pupils dilated, and all I could see was everything drenched around me. Was I really feeling wetness all around me? Think I was seeing wetness, rather than feeling or perhaps, I couldn’t see anything and my eyes were just reading what my clever and crafty mind was influencing them to believe, believe what is right that may not necessarily be right and persuading me to make the same mistakes all over again, the Satan within me, my mind. Soon my eyes renewed their vision with the dawn of more light, striking the walls of my retina as the apertures to them opened up just like windows flung open to allow for the sunlight to walk in. This was my moment of enlightenment, moment that throws one into the throes of guilt, of self-criticism, of ashamed indignation for one’s life and shameful rejection of oneself, that I so often am made to bask in, sometimes self-righteously but mostly contemptuously. The poetic contrast between darkness and light, between death and life, between wrong and right, between body and spirit can never be separated and captured in two different air-sealed bottles like the genie of Aladdin. They will remain sides of the same coin, always together, back-to-back, not facing each other yet destined to live together. Like two heavy weights on a seesaw fighting to down-weigh each other in their desire to climb higher, reach higher and stay higher but only to keep seesawing on either side of the fulcrum, in various combinations of one over the other and each time with a magnificent justification from the laws of the physics that combines, gravity, kinetic energy and potential energy around a pivot. Avery pivotal description to the human life.

Few more moments of agonizing search by my widely awake eyes now convinced me that I just woke up from sleep, had shaken off a bad dream. That sound of what sounded like an alarm now felt like music to my ears. It was just a dream. Breathing heavy, still sweating profusely I gathered all of myself both body and spirit, filled them with the many pieces of my mind fragmented by my thoughts and could now feel so complete. Complete but not full yet. As I took in that first fresh breath slowly bringing my head out from under the cover of the quilt, it was like a life-giving breath being infused into my nostrils, being given a new life again. How assuring and how comforting; like having been given another chance at life, a second chance perhaps.

In the next few seconds of my life, both the little light that was penetrating through the slit of the curtains and my adequately dilated and accommodating eyes together gave me sufficient vision, to sit up and look around. Picking up my blackberry, I noticed that the time was ten past ten on a Saturday.

Part IV – A wake up call

I continued to plead for more air, but in the bargain, was gulping only more of water. I was now getting more desperate to survive. The fittest and finest parts of my body tried to assembled together once more to keep all of me as one, one complete living soul. My mind trying to think of every conceivable idea of pulling my head up, my hands flailing wildly struggling to get a grip of whatever they could hold onto, my legs in their desperate attempt to swim and my eyes teary eyed, looking thro the thick prism of water all around, for a savior. All the best parts of me in their most desperate efficiency came together. Darwin’s ‘survival of the fittest’ indeed was driven by a scientific observation and as a demonstration of the same, the survival of me, Human species, was depended on ‘that’ very science today. My hunger for more and more of oxygen became apparent as my lungs turned into a powerful vacuum machine that would suck in anything and everything that is offered to them. It was like a lost battle, almost lost, when suddenly something happened.

In the throes of my desperation and agony of impending death, suddenly I could hear as the time stood still, it was as if the desperation was all over, the flailing was all over, the fighting to survive had ended, and may be the devil hugged me into its bosom. I died. In that moment of death, a sense of calmness prevailed upon me, of reassuring comfort. Not really, my head just about bobbed out of the waters onto the surface, a shriek of joy escaped my lips not loud enough, yet enough to display the thrill of accomplishment. An excitement of being alive overwhelmed me as my head just about bobbed out of the waters onto the surface and I felt the strong grip of a heavy hand on my arm plunging, lunging and pulling me out, saving me. Gasping for air, with lungs working hard, I offered my little prayer of thanks giving, as I tried to cling on to life again, for this moment, for another moment. I was alive. Another chance at life, a second chance perhaps.

Beep beep… Beep beep…, In that excitement of being alive and in the calmness of the moment, just at that very moment, I heard a distant cry of an alarm. Again my mind started to make some connections, trying to figure out what was it and where was it coming from. It almost felt like a microwave timer going off. Microwave timer? Of course Microwave timer… didn’t I turn it on ten minutes back? It was the yelp from the microwave. The bowl of soup I had kept in there, to heat up, must be ready. I then realized, I had dozed off in the stillness of the waters, in the warmth of the Jacuzzi that I just got into few minutes back. The ten minutes of that sleep seemed like a nightmare of many hours. Not able to figure out what that hand was that pulled me out of the waters, I guessed that the microwave had been alerting for a while now… with the alarm going off again and again, almost like yelling to me, “wake up”.

“Wake up from your shameful slumber you, O’ unworthy creation of God. How long will you continue to sleep in the comforting bed of your personal success, warmth of your individual magnificence, pride of your professional accomplishments, grandeur of your intellectual brilliance, glowing shadows of your talents and fame, and happiness of your personal family? How long will you live a selfish life for personal glory? And worse, how long will you keep complaining for what you do not have? Praying for more money, dreaming of more comforts, thirsting for more luxuries, pleading for more benefits, grumpy at have-nots and angry about unfilled wishes? How long? Time to wake up, look around you. Open the eyes of your mind and look around, are your have-nots more desperate than the haves around? Look around and see the pains, the pangs, the hungers, the guns, the poverty, the homelessness, the terror, the inequality, the tragedies, the refugees, the thirst, the killings, the anarchy, the wails, the animosities, the borders, the racisms, the wars, the complaints, the hatred, the selfishness, the politics, the conflicts, the anger, the intolerance and the denials and betrayals. Do your pains and asks seem to be any which way justified? Shame on you.” This was a wake-up call.

I could hear God, or was it my own self-righteous voice once again?

“This was not what I created you for, in my image.”

The moment of human awakening, as I woke up from my deep shameful slumber.

The microwave timer was still beeping loud, continuing to plead my attention.

Part V – Life – A game of Chess, not a game of dice

As I lay buried in my now totally soaked bed, comforting and cheering in the thought that I was alive, just sweating to a bad dream, which is now over, my mind attempted to connect some dots. It struggled hard to make that connection between the three sounds, one that is the alarm of my blackberry, the other the beep beep of my microwave and the third that I think I have a vague yet assuring familiar memory of. Beep beep… Beep beep… Was it the ring of a chess timer? Oh yes indeed… that, was the sound, that was it, a musical ring of the chess clock that I had been so addicted to, in the youth of my life. So someone somewhere was playing this game, playing it in my dreams. Am I one of the players? Who am I playing against? Or is someone else playing for me? Who is it? Ah, Chess, I so loved to play this game, just as much as I so love to live life. The two are so much the same, the game of chess and the human life, playing and living. Chess, mans greatest invention and; Human life, Gods greatest creation. Seems like a perpetual tussle between God vs. man. But wasn’t it supposedly God vs. devil? No, I surely am not the devil?

Chess, a game of war on the battleground of which you have human-like characters deliberating, strategizing and conspiring hard, to make the right moves at the right times with the sole purpose of winning. One calls them ‘tactics’, that are schemes, maneuvers and plots that may have an immediate acute impact but are more likely small foundations for a future big move, a conniving move. A zero-sum game where there is one winner and one loser, just as in life it is a cutthroat battle where every win that one celebrates is at the cost of a loss that someone else suffers. The game pieces have as many varieties and as many different moves as the human beings have in their relationships with each other. We have an immediate family, paternal maternal sides, cousins and second cousins, distant loved ones, neighborhood and community, village and town, state and country, foreigners, expats, immigrants and refugees (which interestingly and actually, all mean the same) and lastly aliens, wow… that’s exactly the same number of pieces on the chess board, sixteen! Incredibly close, I say. ‘Game’ that is the outcome of thousands of years of creation, refining, science, testing and tinkering and ‘Human’ that is an outcome of millions of years of evolution which is the one word for creation, refining, science, testing and tinkering. The universe is a huge frame on which God created his greatest masterpiece and the chess board is that small micro-frame where man the greatest player created his masterpiece, a fantastic work of science and art, some call it a painting, that is craftily enjoyed by generations of the human species. Now I know, why there have been times when I have felt like “I am God”.

“God doesn’t play dice with the universe”, said Albert Einstein and it is so true about Gods dealing with life too. He surely doesn’t play dice with humans. And therefore the randomness of a dice game would not define life, rather the probabilities behind the many permutations and combinations, just like what a chess game offers is what defines human life. It is full of options and opportunities, which my church pastor would call as ‘the freewill of God’. Hmmm… probabilities and statistics, which are presented on an 8×8 chessboard with 204 squares almost, well almost, as many as the bones in a human, so nicely define and describe the many opportunities that present to the players of the game. They have that freewill to choose their moves, choose their pawns and at their own sweet time, time that is watched by the chess clock. Behold, when someone stands at the door, and knocks, any man who hears that voice, has the freewill to open the door, allowing the stranger to come in. One can choose not to, but can also choose, to. God surely doesn’t play dice with the universe or the humans… quite likely he plays chess.

A game that so beautifully mirrors life, that is rich in metaphors for human existence. Winning on this battle ground requires killing the opponent’s king or dying for your own king, eventually, to only leave the chess board naked and empty bereft of life and ready for the next game, the next pitched battle, the next round of killings. How interesting, isn’t this all life about? A non-violent killing every moment, every day, deep in our hearts and minds? To die for or to kill for, one battle after the other, one victory after another, one loss follows another… or rather worse, ones victory over another’s loss, ones rejoicings over another’s pains, one’s celebrations over another’s mourning’s. Isn’t this life all about, of conspiring, back-biting, politicking with the selfish goal of being better, richer, grander, whiter, larger, sexier and… well off, only to eventually die or be killed, leaving the board empty and naked only for another life to start, another game to begin. A game and a life, in which one treats every other fellow being with distrust, disdain, hatred, and disgust through the prism of personal opinions, past subjective experiences and multitudes of prejudices and misunderstandings’. Interesting that in life and in our human relationships, the threat of an action, drives the relationship in a direction that one wants to. Just like in the game of chess, the threat of an action would gently yet temptingly nudge the opponent in a direction that you would like him to. Would you really carry out that threat? May be not, because that was just a threat, an emotional blackmail that humans so well indulge in. The queen, yes the Queen is the most powerful piece in the game as against the King who is the slowest and the weakest yet the fight continues till the King dies, long after the Queen is gone, just as in the life of a man, it is the woman in his life that carries all the drama, flash and fantasy that bedazzles the man but then unfortunately or fortunately or incidentally it is largely the male kingship that defines and decides everything in life. Not good but the reality, just like God first created man and then created woman out of his rib to be his partner and company.

Last but the most interesting and critical is that just as in the game of chess with the millions of options, to be precise about, 1000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000, The Shannon number, about ten to the power of one hundred and twenty moves, despite that, the hardest thing is the opening game, just as it is in approaching the woman of your dreams, the opening move. With all these myriads of thoughts going on in my mind, I am again distracted, with the sound of the alarm. Again? Yet again and, Yes, I guess I overslept or may be it was that ten minutes snooze. Clearly, there is a game of chess going on, somewhere that is deliberately and calculatedly enticing me. Clearly, the next move was made and the chess clock was struck again. Wondering who is playing, wondering if I am part of the game, surely I am alive and therefore am part of Life.

Part VI – The Judgement Day

And as the dots connected in my mind, just about made clear, between the sound that I assumed I heard and the sound that I think I am familiar with, that include the blackberry alarm, the microwave beep and the chess clock buzz, I was lying on my bed, well believing a game of chess going on somewhere near. My eyes fought hard to open wide, and now struggled to see in the canvas-like backdrop of bright white-light, a distinctly outlined white silhouette, apparently in a white robe, at a distance, sitting on a couch, a black couch. Head tilted forward onto what looked like a small coffee table. That’s all I could see…, that’s all I could see now, with the eyes drowsy and mind just woken up… or perhaps the other way mind drowsy and eyes just woken up. As my eyes made their next attempt to adjust to the brightness of the light shone, they tried to constrict its pupillary gateways now. It felt like a game of see-saw, the sudden dilatation earlier and now an anarchic attempt to constrict. A see-saw of life’s up and downs, of rights and wrongs, of open and closed doors, of joys and pains, of cries and celebrations, of smiles and frowns, of friends and foes, of capital letters and small letters, of black and white, of God and Devil. By now my pupils had constricted and gateways narrowed, enough for me to see, an elderly male, dressed in a white robe sitting on a black couch, staring onto a board-game with hands held together, fingers in a lock perhaps trying to unlock his mind to make the next move, struggling hard to decide, to decide the right from the wrong and choose, choose the right over the wrong. Yes indeed, he was playing the game of life, a game of chess. And right next to the board I did notice that faintly visible chess clock, or was it the clock of life. It all made sense now, that sound that woke me up off deep sleep, soaked in my own sweat, was the sound of this clock of life. Did I really wake up or was this my eternal sleep that I have now woken up into – my After-life? I missed another chance at life, a second chance. I died.

I stood there motionless, like frozen in a vacuum. First it was just me and then slowly as my eyes could see better and see more, as life after death dawned on me, there were more like me, many many more. A hundred or thousand I guess, all standing next to each other back to chest and chest to chest, shoulder-to-shoulder with barely any breathing space, space that became more and more scarce. It was hot, it was humid, it was scary, and a stale smell of sweat with a nauseating stench of the unknown seemed to fog into the scarce space around me, around us. None was moving, like we were stunned into motionlessness by the sounds of the alarm, each ring indicating one move, a move that decides our, my next step, a move that adds one more to this multitude of crowd. The increasingly nauseating stench now started suffocating me. The stench of my own deeds, our deeds, deeds that were not meant to be, not what God really meant us to do. Every one of us bit that forbidden apple, every one of us betrayed those stone tablets that Moses lifted high on the Mount Sinai, every one of us as wretched as wretchedness could be, every one of us as corrupt and criminal as the devil would rule upon us to be, every one of us broke that promise that Abraham made to his God. Not one, not one of us lived in the image of God that we were created in. It all flashed in front of my eyes, like a vulgar display of ones real life, the hidden one. It occurred to me that my life was all like I was fighting God all the time, all my life, doing everything that I was not supposed to, everything that God would not want me to.

I took a deep breath still attempting to gulp as much air as I could perhaps suddenly remembering that I may be still drowning, drowning in the sweat soaked bed, gasping for air and drowning in the surface-deep waters of my Jacuzzi. Gulping more of the less air and with that deep reinvigorating breath of life, I glanced around me. It seemed like a resonant ceiling all around us encompassing us all… hundreds of us… oh no, thousands or may be say a millions of us and ever-increasing. I climbed onto my toes to see better, to be taller than I really am. This is what I have always done, tried to be what I really am not. Appear taller than what I am, better than what I am, richer than what I am and the list goes endless.

There were so many of us lined up for miles and miles and miles and then I just couldn’t see, try however hard I would. And then suddenly it started happening, right in front of me… I could see some with skin peeling off, with ears falling off, with eyes popping out, the decomposition had set in, the stench was only worsening. I could hear loud groans with frothing from the mouth. My ears felt perforated with the loud cacophony of cries, wails and a scary buzz that increased in intensity as bodies started falling apart right in front of me. I stood still in the vacuum as if moving my body will collapse it down into zillions of fragments and puffing my dust into thin air. And then I saw something else happening, some bodies just ascending up in the air leaving all their clothes behind, as if leaving all their earthly possessions behind, as if leaving their body behind and carrying their spirit, as if leaving all their bad self behind and climbing up for a second chance. At the end all that remained were the bones, the ashes and me. Me, still standing still in the same vacuum. I was alone, afraid, proud, confused, cold and sweating.

Now it was just him and me, no one between us. I could now make out his face more clearly… an old man with bald head and the prophet like look on his face, largely covered by a thick nest of an Arab beard. He was clearly very absorbed in his game however, and interestingly, that couch opposite to him, the white one, was unoccupied, all I could make out was a black cloak stretched across covering a third of the that couch. It was almost as if he was playing the game of chess with an invisible opponent who had a black cloak on, part of which stretched across the white couch on which he must have been sitting.

Part VII – Yes, God Exists

I tried to walk closer, as I heard:

“Ah, there you are Son! Well, you made it.” An assuring glee in that tone that comforted me off the stench around.

I turned to face him. He wasn’t looking at me. It was as if I never existed there.

To be continued…

General

“from shadows to the stars”

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ROHITH

“At the stroke of one midnight hour when the world slept, the Indian democracy was born on 15 August 1947,

At the stroke of another midnight hour when the world slept again, the Indian democracy was caught napping, over the murder of ‘Rohith Vemula’.

At the stroke of this midnight hour when Rohith heads from shadows to the stars, it is time for pseudo-stars of Indian democracy to come out of their shadows, Or continue to live a life in shame.”

What a shame: What a shame that ‘Rohith’ is no more. What a shame that a young, smart, intelligent, intellectual and talented researcher, writer and activist died… correction – ‘murdered’. Murdered not by one person or one institution but murdered by an entire country. A country that continues to sleep on a multi-layered mattress of casteism, regionalism, religious sectarianism and hypocrisy softened by a layer of apathetic and a pathetic governance, covered by a comforter called pseudo-democracy that has nailed into coffin, the Indian nationalism right after the clock struck twelve on the night of 15 August 1947. Without going into a blame game, a detached look into the event and aftermath sadly reflects the evolution, rather devolution of a nation that was born out of the dreams of many, shed blood of many more and survives today on the hope of a billion more. Death of Rohith Vemula mirrors how deep-rooted the country’s beliefs are in the many institutions that we have constructed around for years, called religion and religious tolerance, linguistic states, caste system and reservation and the likes that are the progenitors of today’s political parties. In his death, Rohith has shaken many out of a slumber, hopefully, and if not, then what a shame…

Rohith, the Dreamer: I personally do not know Rohith Vemula, in fact had never heard his name till three days back when the news of his suicide splashed across news media sources and social networks. But then while reading his news as a passing glance with absolutely no sense of shock or surprise whatsoever but rather with a casual preconceived impression of “this happens in my country every day”, I chanced upon Rohith Vemula’s suicide note. At first read, I laughed… seriously? Is this a media blunder? This is not a suicide note, they got the wrong document uploaded. I had to reread it at least two more times to then realize… What a shame? What a shame Rohith Vemula is no more. Rohith Vemula, a scientist, activist, writer, philosopher, leader and most definitely a dreamer, died attempting to live his dream. A dream of hope, of equality, of liberty, of rights, a dream of a just life just as the preamble of the nation reads: “WE, THE PEOPLE OF INDIA, having solemnly resolved to constitute India into a SOVEREIGN SOCIALIST SECULAR DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC and to secure to all its citizens: JUSTICE, social, economic and political; LIBERTY of thought, expression, belief, faith and worship; EQUALITY of status and of opportunity; and to promote among them all; FRATERNITY assuring the dignity of the individual and the unity and integrity of the Nation; IN OUR CONSTITUENT ASSEMBLY this twenty-sixth day of November, 1949, do HEREBY ADOPT, ENACT AND GIVE TO OURSELVES THIS CONSTITUTION”. Sadly, it was not yet the right time to even dream of fulfilling the preamble of the Indian constitution, not yet, even though it’s over six decades now. It will remain a dream.

Until the last word: If a normal human with a few extra brain cells, than an average person, who may be just even little close to one standard deviation on the right side of the Gaussian curve for ‘human-intelligence-distribution’, reads Rohith Vemula’s suicide note, the first feeling that will come to his or her mind is, a feeling of overwhelming awe, of respect and reverence and of complete stillness of time, given the clarity, style and extraordinary depth of the contents that have such a huge meaningful message cutting across boundaries both natural and man-made, physical and meta-physical. It surely did not read like a suicide note, surely not until the last paragraph, until the last word is read. It in fact read more like a literary article by a scientist who is both well read as well as deeply experienced by the veracities of life, banalities of rationality and travesties of Indian democracy, a democracy that has been nothing but a majoritarian vandalism ridden with feudalism, nepotism, casteism and religious bigotry, irrespective of which government has ruled the country, from the night the we received freedom. Or did we? By the time I completed the first draft of this article, I have read the letter over twenty times and each time it hits me, new and harder, waking me up and hopefully every Indian reader, to ask if this is just a suicide note or a commandment of a departing soul to what man should heed to. Until the last word is read, until the last leaf is turned, the letter reads like a soulful, mystic musical composition of words that tell, ask and challenge the human within the monsters that we have become, to try and become normal, become humans. As I turned the leaves of his letter, I was reminded of the composition by the maestro Yanni, “Until the last moment”, a stirring soulful composition many years back that does poetic justice to Rohith’s life even before he lived it and lends music to Rohith’s letter, until the last word.

From Shadows to the Stars: ‘The Final letter’ as it is called now, Rohith Vemula’s suicide note so completely and poetically reveals many faces of Rohith. A son’s love for family, a friend’s respect for friends – “family you loved me very much”. A confession that takes the blame onto himself and complains or blames no one – “I have no complaints on anyone. It is always with myself I had problems.” A youth dreaming of his goals and ambitions, of sky being the limit – “I always wanted to be a writer, a writer of science, like Carl Sagan.” Of everything that a parent would train his child to dream of. A poem on his romance with science and the stars – “I loved science, stars, nature, but then I loved people…” A sincere critique who is challenging mans conflict with nature – “…loved people without knowing that people have long since divorced from nature.” A philosopher who viewed and understood the depth of relationships in their true meaning – “Love is constructed, our beliefs are colored. Our originality valid through artificial art”. A writer with incredible vocabulary who could use the words to play into the reader’s mind with such visible clarity that reading the letter seemed like actually watching the writers ideas displayed in motion on a three-dimensional canvas, right in front of my eyes. The beautiful threads of words used to, so effortlessly yet so powerfully and meaningfully, connect ‘life with death’, ‘stars with dust’, ‘soul with monster’, ‘love with pain’, ‘identity with vote’, ‘man to a number’, ‘birth to a fatal accident’, ‘from shadows to stars…’ this would have been a beautiful poem that I will have ever read! I would have called it “from shadows to the stars”. Alas, it is not a poem. Every word and sentence written compelled that it be read, connected, understood and awed at; every emotion in that letter begged to be smiled, laughed or cried at; every idea conveyed deserves respect, reverence and standing ovation; every unasked question in it demanded a clear and complete response, every criticism provoked anger, aggression, pain and hurt; no sense is left untouched. The clarity in his pristine mind just before his death, the stillness within his wobbling thoughts, the silence emanating from the noise of many voices of his many faces, the hidden-inside-the-heart anger within his soul, an undeniably undying attitude finally humbled, all so loudly clamored for attention in his life, and Rohith in his last moments was able to so methodically do justice to it all, by bringing them all together in this one note, before he departed from shadows to the stars.

The Final Letter: What has the country come to? Counting every death as another statistic, using every event like this as an opportunity to harvest, for personal and institutional benefits, digging into the pie before it is all taken, and then moving onto another breaking news because this is old the next day. I am certain that Gods, if they do exist and if they live somewhere out there, certainly take turns to watch over and to command over the mankind, although unfortunately in a very non-interfering manner. And for this oversight, they surely do need help. Today Rohith Vemula offers them that much-needed help. If ever Gods were to exchange notes while handing over their duties from one to the other, this letter would easily be the one single document that so completely and so accurately describes mankind and nature’s relationship on the brink of a separation so calculatedly and callously authored by the man himself. “Where the mind is without fear” reverberates as the desire that Rohith might have inherited from Rabindra Nath Tagore, begging his God “Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.” And surely the Gods need help too, help, as they work towards taking the country into that heaven of freedom, a freedom where the head is held high, knowledge is free, narrow domestic walls are fragmented, words are true with a clear stream of reason and words lead human mind forward into thought and action. The Gods surely must be thrilled that they now have a one-pager handover document on issue they have at hand. It is called Rohith Vemula’s, ‘The Final Letter.’

At the stroke of midnight: It is indeed a shame that the author of this complete and accurate scientific work is no more and the reason he is no more is because of the very contents in this document that he so magically molded and carefully poured onto a papyrus piece. Sadness and pain are the two most profound feelings that I am currently going through. Sadness at the loss of such an intellectual genius he would have been and pain that he did not commit suicide but an entire country murdered him, under the dark shadowy cover of democracy that is more equal to some, than to the other. “At the stroke of one midnight hour when the world slept” the Indian Democracy was born and “At the stroke of another midnight hour when the world slept again”, a pseudo-democracy that has shaken the foundations of the same democracy, murdered Rohith Vemula. A murder not by accident, not by fate, not by a non-interfering attitude but clearly by a conspiracy hatched on the shoulders of the many systems within the same democracy, systems that identify Indians not as Indians but by their color, caste, language, state and richness. When the first prime minister of the country authored his “Tryst with destiny” on the stroke of midnight when Indian attained freedom, little would he have realized that he had nostradamically foretold another tryst with destiny, the one that Rohith chose to live and chose to embrace, at the stroke of another midnight.

The Sun has set before it rose: It is even more poignant and poetic that a twenty-five-year-old adult died just at the time when he was about to take that big leap of faith into the world of real-politics, starting a new life. The Sun on his life set just about when it was rising. Rohith died in the portals of an Institution and under the shadows of the teachers that were meant to lay the foundations of higher knowledge in many like him, meant to lay the path of right directions to make right choices for many like him, meant to sow the sprouting seeds of wisdom in many like him, meant to spread the message of humanity to many like him and an Institution that is deemed a center of excellence for the country. What a shame that an Institution died in Rohith Vemula today within the ramparts of the very Institution that was meant to, one day turn him into a man, a scientist, a writer and perhaps a true democratic leader. Or perhaps that’s what the institution and the country were afraid of…felt threatened by, a true democratic leader in the making, in Rohith Vemula. With this death, the Sun has set today but sadly, even before it rose.

Wake up India: The predictable and incredible display of so picture perfect petty politics, that is worthy of nothing but disdain, anger and outright rejection, in the aftermath of this murder further puts to utter shame, the very shame in this loss. Every politician and every leader, who are by default opportunistic, worthy or unworthy of his or her salt have come into this limelight, to make hay while the last rays of Sun still remains on Rohith Vemula’s remains. The bright spotlights radiating from the star-dust of Rohith’s spirit have overnight moved over from his remains to these opportunistic stars of Indian democracy. Not pained about the loss of such a precious life; not saddened at the loss of a scientist, activist, writer, leader or a human; not concerned about why it happened; perhaps not even aware of the contents of ‘The final letter’ and if aware; unable to fathom the depth of the same, every one of the adaptable principled politician of the nation has displayed a perfect spirited show of blame-game. It may be caste, it may not be or well it is; it may be a personal problem, really? Some calling it a non-issue and others calling it the death of a terror apologist… seriously? There are arguments, there are counter-arguments, there are contests, there are clarifications, there are investigations but unfortunately, there are no lessons. No lessons learned from this carefully written chapter that has already gone down in the annals of literary works as ‘The Final Letter’. A chapter that will perhaps, albeit unfortunately, stand taller than the author himself. Confidently but very sadly, I could say that those benefiting out of this ‘another breaking news event in India’, the propagandists, the hypocrite nationalists, and even the casteist hate-mongers, not one of them will ever be able to cross to the right of the third standard deviation on the left side of the same Gaussian curve I referred to earlier. Really, is this a suicide? That too a suicide due to personal problems, is it? Wake up India, wake up… And these, my friends are the leaders and lawmakers of the free India, of our democratic country. Indeed time to wake up.

Hope: Yet, the letter ends with love and forgiveness, as it displays Rohith Vemula’s humility in his parting statements – “No one is responsible for this”, “Do not trouble my enemies after I am gone.” It felt like reading ‘The Ten Commandments’ right from the stone tablets held up by Moses. Another incredible display of maturity and wisdom on the backdrop of hope… of a hope that he could not see in his little lifetime but yet in his death he remained assured that people whom he left behind would see, see hope someday. A picture perfect composition that even captures the left over works on his personal front to be completed; apology notes and thanksgivings offered to the concerned; powerful deep messages to rest of the readership; and somewhere touching a personal chord deep within me; this letter by a twenty-five year old is a reflection of what the country has lost and what we are losing every day. In his death and in his final letter are lessons for each one of us, as citizens of the nation, as leaders of the country and as humans, we have a learning from Rohith Vemula’s life, a life that we did not allow him to live but a life he so well authored it in his final letter. Let us desire to live that life… What a shame he is no more, but we can surely desire and hope to reach him in the stars one day where, he is the lone worthy placeholder today and proudly tell him the story… a new story of “from shadows to the stars” – A biography of Rohith Vemula.

PS: A copy of the original letter is below

Rohith Vemula’s suicide note (The final letter)

Good morning,

I would not be around when you read this letter. Don’t get angry on me. I know some of you truly cared for me, loved me and treated me very well. I have no complaints on anyone. It was always with myself I had problems. I feel a growing gap between my soul and my body. And I have become a monster. I always wanted to be a writer. A writer of science, like Carl Sagan. At last, this is the only letter I am getting to write.

I loved science, stars, nature, but then I loved people without knowing that people have long since divorced from nature. Our feelings are second handed. Our love is constructed. Our beliefs coloured. Our originality valid through artificial art. It has become truly difficult to love without getting hurt.

The value of a man was reduced to his immediate identity and nearest possibility. To a vote. To a number. To a thing. Never was a man treated as a mind. As a glorious thing made up of stardust. In very field, in studies, in streets, in politics, and in dying and living.

I am writing this kind of letter for the first time. My first time of a final letter. Forgive me if I fail to make sense.

May be I was wrong, all the while, in understanding world. In understanding love, pain, life, death. There was no urgency. But I always was rushing. Desperate to start a life. All the while, some people, for them, life itself is curse. My birth is my fatal accident. I can never recover from my childhood loneliness. The unappreciated child from my past.

I am not hurt at this moment. I am not sad. I am just empty. Unconcerned about myself. That’s pathetic. And that’s why I am doing this.

People may dub me as a coward. And selfish, or stupid once I am gone. I am not bothered about what I am called. I don’t believe in after-death stories, ghosts, or spirits. If there is anything at all I believe, I believe that I can travel to the stars. And know about the other worlds.

If you, who is reading this letter can do anything for me, I have to get seven months of my fellowship, one lakh and seventy five thousand rupees. Please see to it that my family is paid that. I have to give some 40 thousand to Ramji. He never asked them back. But please pay that to him from that.

Let my funeral be silent and smooth. Behave like I just appeared and gone. Do not shed tears for me. Know that I am happy dead than being alive. “From shadows to the stars.”

Uma anna, sorry for using your room for this thing.

To ASA family, sorry for disappointing all of you. You loved me very much. I wish all the very best for the future.

For one last time,

Jai Bheem

I forgot to write the formalities. No one is responsible for my this act of killing myself. No one has instigated me, whether by their acts or by their words to this act. This is my decision and I am the only one responsible for this. Do not trouble my friends and enemies on this after I am gone.

General

CDC – An unfailing Hope

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An unfailing Hope

On a hot afternoon under the shade of a drought-ridden tree, fourteen year old Ojok Daniel (name changed) suddenly stopped eating. Ojok began staring into the distance and his head started to nod every 8-10 seconds. This episode lasted for about 5 minutes. Unfortunately, this is neither the first nor the last occurrence for Ojok. Described as Nodding Syndrome, a form of atypical seizures, Ojok is one among the many children in his village who are afflicted with this disease. Health officials have seen Nodding Syndrome in geographically defined regions of northern Uganda, South Sudan and Tanzania.  The descriptions of the syndrome include head nodding that gets worse over time and is sparked by exposure to cold weather and familiar food, with additional cognitive and neurological dysfunction over time.

The road from Kampala to Kitgum District is scenic, with the quietly streaming Nile River providing a light background noise along parts of the journey. However, very abruptly the drive became rough as our vehicle careened onto a dirt road, the only indication of its existence being tire tracks of an earlier vehicle. This served as our welcome to the epicenter of Nodding Syndrome in Uganda. Northern Uganda in February and March still manages to reach anywhere from 85 to 95 degrees Fahrenheit which, coupled with torrential rains and strong winds, made my two-week trip anything but easy.

It had been six months since my last trip to Uganda, and I was returning to support the coordination of a follow-up survey estimating the prevalence of Nodding Syndrome. At the time the project was being led by Dr. P, an Epidemic Intelligence Service (EIS) Officer who had already been in the field for two weeks, an energetic first year officer, brings with her a fresh mind loaded with many questions and a “ready to roll-up the sleeves” attitude. Accompanied by Dr. J, a globe-trotting neuroepidemiologist from CDC, we were a good mix of experience, expertise and energy that CDC offered as support for the Nodding Syndrome.

A typical day in the field began anywhere between 7 and 8 am. We met with our site teams at the local district office to review plans and collect supplies for the day. We then traveled by car through parts of the country where infrastructure ranged from minimal to non-existent. Upon arriving at one of the three parishes where our survey took place; we were greeted by a gathering of children, their caregivers and village health team staff. We were looking for children on our list of participants. If any of the children were not present, the local village health team members would travel on their well-worn bikes or by foot to track down the children and their caregivers and bring them to the site.  This was all a part of the extreme effort made to include only those on our randomly selected participants list and not just use those participants who were conveniently available. Despite the fact that we were working in an area without paved roads, lacking phone connectivity, and many times transforming the shade of trees into our survey station and interview rooms, all credit must be given to the volunteer village health team members who still helped to maintain the scientific rigor in the midst of harsh field conditions. Our day would between 3 and 6 pm if all of the children sampled to participate were present and interviewed.

This survey was the second phase of our project and involved interviewing a sampled subset of children whose caregivers had answered yes to the question “does your child have nodding syndrome?” in our first survey conducted over the summer of 2012. By asking a series of questions intended to capture everything from clinical symptoms, response to medications, and neurocognitive abilities as well as taking body measurements, the Uganda Ministry of Health and CDC aimed to conduct the first scientific measure of Nodding Syndrome prevalence. It is our hope and expectation that by understanding how many and how severely the children are affected, we can better direct resources and projects aimed to identify the cause and treatment of Nodding Syndrome.

Primarily affecting children aged 5-15 years old; Nodding Syndrome is a form of seizure disorder in which children repeatedly bob their head forward. Accompanied by neurologic and cognitive symptoms, children with this syndrome come to require around the clock care. I see families and communities depressed and dejected as they watch their children deteriorate in front of their eyes; caregivers express the frustration of having to provide 24/7 care and the toll it takes on their entire family. Forced to stay at home to care for the sick child and unable to work to provide for their other children, or forced to tie those children with Nodding Syndrome to a tree in order to prevent them from wandering off or injuring themselves, the families and communities in this region are slipping into a vicious cycle of poverty, malnutrition and sickness. Often occurring in many families in the same village, the whole community has had to face the burdens that accompany Nodding Syndrome.

Despite these hardships that will remain etched on the canvas of my memory, I left Uganda with tremendous hope. It is this same hope that makes these families still care for their affected children and that prompts caregivers to participate in surveys like these knowing very well that there is no individual therapeutic benefit being offered. This is the hope. And in the midst of this hope I could clearly see the true face of the CDC; the true face that perhaps can only be seen and perceived out in the field. Out here in the field I see what CDC truly reflects, and it is more than just an ordinary Federal agency. CDC is that ‘unfailing hope’ of these children, families and communities afflicted with Nodding Syndrome and an agency that will translate that hope into realization. CDC is and will remain that ‘unfailing hope’ that doesn’t just promise to take the world towards a safer healthier future but leaves behind a confidence in the most impossible situations, promising to come back to realize that dream.

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