El Presidente

Written by MS4BCV

Evo, named after Evo Morales the current president of Bolivia , was recently mentioned by the girls in one of their blogs. While the girls continue to do an outstanding job serving children like Evo, we have returned home, and now have the capacity to upload the numerous videos we shot at the burn center. This in mind, I thought it only appropriate to share the impact that Evo had on our experience in Cochabamba.

Two years old, he lay flat on his stomach with his right arm and leg tied to his crib to prevent him from rolling on his back. He was sedated to alleviate the pain of the burns he suffered on his butt, and the debridement that followed to expedite their healing. Although the exact cause of his burns was never revealed, it was speculated that they were a result of a custom of burning a child’s rear-end with coals to quell the onset of diarrhea. He had been abandoned by both his mother and father, and was under the supervision of his two uncles at the time of his injury. Aside from his burns, he was severely malnourished. He was covered by what could best be described as a tent of blankets constructed to keep him warm while preventing direct contact with his exposed burns.

Our first day at Burn Center Viedma, the sight of his hazy brown eyes peering up at us from beneath this heap of covers was overwhelming. All that he wished to say, but was yet unable, was written with the mastery of Whitman in the expressions on his face. In each wrinkle of his brow and twist of his lip I saw the fear, frustration, hunger, pain, and solitude that defined his brief existence. Yet as my eyes began to water and I started to slip into hopelessness, he extended his tiny hand and wrapped it around my finger. With this gesture, Evo introduced me to reality. His simple touch made all that was composed within the poignant expressions of his face tangible. Once accepted as concrete, hopelessness gave way to empowerment. "We can help you", I thought silently to myself.

The day of our departure from Cochabamba we stopped at the burn center to say goodbye to the children. Fully recovered and fifteen pounds heavier, Evo was found alone playing on the floor. Grasping the same finger he had three weeks prior, he led me on a walk through the halls of the hospital. The agony that had previously been portrayed on his gaunt face was replaced by smiles and demands for more food. Yet the time came to say goodbye, and I led him back to where I found him earlier in the day. I gave him a hug, said so long, sat him down and turned to walk away. I fought looking back with every ounce of my judgment, yet as I rounded the corner it was unavoidable. Two outstretched arms, a face furrowed with disapproval, and tears streaming down his chubby cheeks. It’s an image that’s burned into my psyche. I was abandoning him, much as his mother and father had, and although our brief presence in his life harbored a fraction of the influence of a parent, the statement in his expression will haunt me forever.