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