I live in a bigger village here in Benin, where access to healthcare is more visible and the people are slightly more proactive about their health. It's easy to overlook malnutrition here unless I am in the health center when mothers have brought in their children from up to fifteen kilometers away. Most of the kids I see in Djougou look relatively healthy. Sure, they're barefoot and often very thin, but they eat something each day and go to school for the most part. So I naturally assumed that malnutrition isn't really much of an issue up here. Not true.
A few weeks ago I went on an epic walk around the city with my friend Affissa, a high school senior and running enthusiast who has become my closest friend in village. On one of the rare days when she wasn't studying like mad for the bacc (necessary to pass high school and go on to college...she's one of the few girls in my town to even be in this position), she invited me to walk with her and a friend out by the lake in the south. We rode her moto to her friend's house and I stored my helmet in their living room. While they were off greeting the family and chatting about the insignificant things that make up so much of life here, I started playing a bit with some of the concession kids.
At first I didn't notice what was different about "Malik", the smallest boy. I thought he was just younger maybe than the others until they got a little closer to me, a little braver. Then I noticed his reddened hair, skeleton like arms, and how his head seemed too big for his body. I recognized marasmus malnutrition immediately, the type of malnutrition where the child literally is starving from lack of sufficient calories. He was playing just a little less actively than the other boys, kicking the soccer ball with less vigor, but still smiling, still laughing and taunting me with "batouré, batouré!" like the others. He came up to me, giggling, and I touched his shoulder, smiling with him. His skin was hot to the touch, feverish. He ran off with the others when Affissa and the other adults walked over.
As we were leaving the concession I asked Affissa if Malik was okay. I told her that he had a fever and needed to be resting. She explained that he was often sick with diarrhea and the other boys didn't have the problem as often. She attributed his illness to 'gris-gris' a type of sorcery more common to the voodoo south, but I could tell she thought that was simplistic. I told her that he should drink lots of clean water and eat enough and she assured me that he was getting a lot better, that he didn't used to play. She encouraged me to forget about it and she was right. There really wasn't anything I could do beyond simply making sure that the family knew what to do. During our walk I mentioned making an oral rehydration drink and Affissa's friend said that the family was doing that already. I felt a little better, but I was just sort of shocked that malnutrition like that was just a casual part of life for these families.
It's true though. Mothers will often wait months before naming their children for fear that they will fall to illness. They have many children, usually a result of not having or believing in birth control, but also because the more children you bear, the more you'll have when some of them die. Children are not treated well in Benin in general. There is an emotional separation between parents and their kids. Beatings are completely acceptable and very common which is hard to hear or watch as an outsider. Children work hard manual labor for their families, especially the girls. Parents love their children here, of course, but it's a different kind of love then we see in the states. They never know when Allah, or sorcery, gris-gris, will take their children from them, and this makes them just a little more expendable. That's the way they were treated as children and they perpetuate it each new generation. It's a very different way of life and one that is not compatible with Westerners or myself, someone passionate about children's health and the health of those who are disempowered. But all I can really do is give my perspective and try to learn from theirs to make a small difference.
Affissa came over to my house a few days ago in the evening. We sat out on my porch under the mango tree and sipped glasses of water as the sun set. I mentioned Malik and asked how he was doing. She explained casually that he had gotten sick again and would probably die. I asked how his mother would feel if that happened, trying to keep the tears out of my voice. She just shrugged and said that his mother has five other children to help her. Seeing the look of surprise on my face, she quickly added that she would still be sad. A few moments passed and then she changed the subject, not because his illness was a difficult topic, but because to her it was such a simple one.
A few weeks ago I went on an epic walk around the city with my friend Affissa, a high school senior and running enthusiast who has become my closest friend in village. On one of the rare days when she wasn't studying like mad for the bacc (necessary to pass high school and go on to college...she's one of the few girls in my town to even be in this position), she invited me to walk with her and a friend out by the lake in the south. We rode her moto to her friend's house and I stored my helmet in their living room. While they were off greeting the family and chatting about the insignificant things that make up so much of life here, I started playing a bit with some of the concession kids.
At first I didn't notice what was different about "Malik", the smallest boy. I thought he was just younger maybe than the others until they got a little closer to me, a little braver. Then I noticed his reddened hair, skeleton like arms, and how his head seemed too big for his body. I recognized marasmus malnutrition immediately, the type of malnutrition where the child literally is starving from lack of sufficient calories. He was playing just a little less actively than the other boys, kicking the soccer ball with less vigor, but still smiling, still laughing and taunting me with "batouré, batouré!" like the others. He came up to me, giggling, and I touched his shoulder, smiling with him. His skin was hot to the touch, feverish. He ran off with the others when Affissa and the other adults walked over.
As we were leaving the concession I asked Affissa if Malik was okay. I told her that he had a fever and needed to be resting. She explained that he was often sick with diarrhea and the other boys didn't have the problem as often. She attributed his illness to 'gris-gris' a type of sorcery more common to the voodoo south, but I could tell she thought that was simplistic. I told her that he should drink lots of clean water and eat enough and she assured me that he was getting a lot better, that he didn't used to play. She encouraged me to forget about it and she was right. There really wasn't anything I could do beyond simply making sure that the family knew what to do. During our walk I mentioned making an oral rehydration drink and Affissa's friend said that the family was doing that already. I felt a little better, but I was just sort of shocked that malnutrition like that was just a casual part of life for these families.
It's true though. Mothers will often wait months before naming their children for fear that they will fall to illness. They have many children, usually a result of not having or believing in birth control, but also because the more children you bear, the more you'll have when some of them die. Children are not treated well in Benin in general. There is an emotional separation between parents and their kids. Beatings are completely acceptable and very common which is hard to hear or watch as an outsider. Children work hard manual labor for their families, especially the girls. Parents love their children here, of course, but it's a different kind of love then we see in the states. They never know when Allah, or sorcery, gris-gris, will take their children from them, and this makes them just a little more expendable. That's the way they were treated as children and they perpetuate it each new generation. It's a very different way of life and one that is not compatible with Westerners or myself, someone passionate about children's health and the health of those who are disempowered. But all I can really do is give my perspective and try to learn from theirs to make a small difference.
Affissa came over to my house a few days ago in the evening. We sat out on my porch under the mango tree and sipped glasses of water as the sun set. I mentioned Malik and asked how he was doing. She explained casually that he had gotten sick again and would probably die. I asked how his mother would feel if that happened, trying to keep the tears out of my voice. She just shrugged and said that his mother has five other children to help her. Seeing the look of surprise on my face, she quickly added that she would still be sad. A few moments passed and then she changed the subject, not because his illness was a difficult topic, but because to her it was such a simple one.
It was so hard to think that there are many children are suffering from malnutrition while the others doesn't care. I wish we can have a better solution in this problem.
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