The deepest love

Becky comes to us for breakfast two days after her baby died. She has been released from the hospital where she stayed for two weeks before giving birth. She is wearing a piece of cloth wrapped around her waste and a thin red shirt with no bra. She wears a piece of blue cloth around her head. A symbol of mourning. Her breasts are noticeably swollen and heavy beneath the fabric. She has taken the braids out of her hair and it stands about one inch tall in a halo around her head.
She sits at the table as we pass eggs and fresh bread, sim sim paste mixed with honey and mango marmelade. She does not eat. I pour her some tea and she stirs it with vague interest.
How is your boyfriend, I ask. She replies that she has not seen him since he came to take the babies body from the hospital.
I missed the burial, she says looking down into the milky tea.
Then she begins to cry. A tear at first and then deep sobs. Ash se cries her breasts begin to leak milk. The fluid seeps through the thin fabric of her shirt and spreads across her front. When she finishes, she gulps her tea down like she hasn’t taken liquid in days.
Then she takes bread as well and eats it with such speed I am tempted to offer her the whole loaf. I leave her at the table.
I go to my bedroom and return with a bra. Black and lacy, it is stretched out, I can’t remember when I bought it, but know that it has been around almost as long as I have had breasts. Perhaps I got it when I was seventeen like Becky. Aimee helps her put it on and she flashes a little contented look.
We ask her to tell her story to out camera. We filmed her for two weeks in labor. Our camera needs to know what happened, but only if she feels strong enough. She lifts her eyebrows up and down quickly, a Ugandan gesture for ;’yes’ and begins to speak slowly into the camera, giggling every so often. She speaks the facts, the doctor asked her to pay 40,000 shillings for the cytotec, about $22 but more than two months salary for her family. She borrowed it from her aunt, who borrowed it from her husbands first wife. The family paid for the drug that killed the baby.
I don’t think she knows this irony but I feel chills as she speaks into the camera. I cannot ask her anything else.
We part with a long embrace, both aware that it may be a liong time before we see one another. She places her head on my shoulder and I tell her I am proud of her. I give her a bunch of clothes I am leaving in Uganda and am going to pay her school fees so she can finish high school and live in the safety of a boarding school. She will start next week.

I am leaving Gulu. It is hard to part from my sisters at St. Monicas. We have grown close. It has been what Aimee calls our African Sound of Music fantasy. Each of these sisters is so special and have provided a depth of connection and support that has been crucial in this work. I have never in my life understood the drive to become a nun, except for here. In a place where most of the relationships and sex are based on either forced family obligation or just violent force, the call to have a relationship with God instead is attractive. And these women have fun. Their community is rich with laughter and music and the sustenance of giving. Sister Pauline says don’t go Rachel, you have become a true sister. What would I do here? I ask. It would take a lot of work to make me a nun. It is ok she says, you will be our first ever Jewish sister. The offer is mildly tempting, I realize it is because the comfort of such sustained faith and generous love is something I have never experienced with such dedication and seriousness.
I have been overwhelmed by the urge to run away so much in the last month, to just be free, far away from the trauma and the pain. The comfort of community life is tempting. Alas, I am afraid I would make a very bad nun.... for more reasons than one.

My backpack is heavy but I have successfully shed enough stuff to only carry the one bag. I am so tired I feel I have lost every drop of my personality. Just breathing and moving from one place to another takes all that I have. Almost like when I had mono in high school. Aimee and Sister Grace accompany me to the bus park where I will ride the six hours into Kampala. I embrace them both and we all cry. Aimee and Kevin are headed to Rwanda tomorrow. My bus is called ‘The White Cock’, which it announces in bold letters across the front. On the back it says “Try The Cock!”. Somehow I feel safe. (Another sign that I should not become a nun.) Irony of ironies, the person in the seat next to me has two live white cocks stored at our feet. I look around for another seat but this is it. I take a deep breath, let the fear of having my toes pecked by chickens go, and relish in my window seat. We wait for two hours before the bus is full enough to leave. We make about four false starts, rolling forward, then back as one final person squishes in, and then we are off. After ten feet we stop for gas and to change a tire. And then we are off. After ten minutes we stop as the bus is bum rushed by merchants selling goat on a stick, roasted corn, cassava, water, porridge, roasted banana, mango and boiled eggs, and live chickens. Hands fly out of the bus and deals are negotiated as the merchants throw goods up into the windows and money is placed hastily into hands as the bus takes off again. This repeats itself about every twenty minutes along the journey. After a series of potholes that make me wish I still had my bra, I settle into some sort of sleep. It feels feverish and I wake because something is funny. My feet are overly hot and sweaty. One of the cocks has nested on them. Startled, I kick him off. He skwawks and pushes back under the seat. My neighbor laughs at me. The chicken has shit on my toes. I wipe them with the paper my cassava snack was wrapped in and then squirt purrell all over them. The ‘White Cock’ pulls into the Kampalla bus yard four hours later.
I hop on another bus to Entebbe and arrive at the airport just in time for my flight to Nairobi.
I feel off center as we take off into the air.
Zawadi is waiting for me when I arrive. She is family and I am instantly calmed by her presence. We drive to a restaurant and indulge in a beautiful meal before crawling back to her house where I take the longest hot shower and climb into her soft bed for a sleep that feels like angels. Her is house is eerily like mine. A bold red wall, pillows stacked in corners, tapestries on the walls. I wake and Zawadi has left for work but she has left a note.
Don’t leave. I have a surprise for you at 11:00.
I shower again relishing the hot water and all of her salt scrubs and lotions. The doorbell rings. A woman with a massage table is standing outside. The next two hours are peppermint and lavender oil bliss. I melt into being held and spend the rest of the visit in and out of bed and eating and going out to listen to music at night.

The plane ride home is hard. I feel anxious. I wrap my scarf around my head and cry. Something new is stirring. I am not sure what but it pushes me beyond where I am comfortable. This will take a long time to process. To really be able to speak about.

I arrive home to the deepest love imaginable. The women just carry me. I am so held. So blessed. Massage and a clean home stocked with food and light and blessings. Healthy kittens and fresh sheets and a hot meal. I could not be more held. What a perfect gift to have this family so profoundly, present. Thank you. I could not do this without you.