My roommates and I were talking tonight and somehow conversation turned to my trip to Chad. I was thinking about my time in the clinic, and all of a sudden I realized something I'm ashamed to say I hadn't thought of before.
I took pictures of a dying woman and her family.
Took pictures.
How did that family feel when I pulled out my camera in the middle of their reality, their pain, so I could share the pictures later with all my upper-middle-class friends and church-goers once I left? Was I weeping with those who a day later would weep for their mother? Was I mourning with those who were emotionally, financially, mentally destroyed by this loss? Was I really concerned for her or, rather, for how well my camera would catch the deep depressions in the emaciated face that could have been my mother's?
A few days later, I attended Masana's funeral. Her daughter sat with us and made us tea. She brought us to a place where we could sit in the shade. She gave us fans to cool ourselves with. And she sat and gave us company. How deeply I want to thank her now and apologize.
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